The Ruddigore Dichotomy
by TubalCainUK
Summary: Gilbert & Sullivan's opera "Ruddigore" ended with Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd using a little logic to nullify the Witch's Curse. But a little logic can be a dangerous thing, as a team of 20th Century astrophysicists discover...
1. Chapter 1

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter One

Professor Hawthorne had had a long, hard day and had just settled back into a comfy chair in the Senior Common Room for a quick nap. Suddenly he felt someone touch his arm. He started. Dr. Smith was standing over him. "Oh, hello, Helena," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Dr. Helena Smith looked down at him and spoke quietly but urgently. "Professor, I've just been having a word with Stephen. You know, the new chap, Stephen Phillips," she explained as Hawthorne stared at her blankly. "He thinks he may have found a black hole, eleven light-months from the Earth."

Hawthorne replied with a I-know-you're-a-woman-but-there's-no-need-to-get-emotional look. "We must have had at least half a dozen bizarre goings-on around the Galaxy since the beginning of the year. It's only these new observation techniques. They're bound to throw up a few teething troubles." He sank back into his chair.

"But if his observations proved correct, and there really were a black hole eleven light-months away, the Earth could be destroyed within eighteen months. Don't you think it's worth investigating?"

Hawthorne was nonplussed. "Oh yes, of course. For starters, you'd have to call off your wedding, I'd never get my knighthood..."

"If we knew that the world was going to end and we did nothing about it, and we never told anyone, because we thought it was teething troubles with a new technique."

Professor Hawthorne took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I shouldn't be having conversations like this, he thought. Especially not at tea-time. He looked up at her, shrugged and said, "OK, check it out if you must, I don't care. I say, if you do come up with anything - "

But she was gone.

Helena gradually became aware that the phone was ringing; she'd been so engrossed in the figures that she hadn't noticed at first. "Twenty-seven, twenty-seven, twenty-seven," she muttered. "Twenty-seven, twenty-seven, hello?"

"Helena! Where are you?"

"Robert? I'm at my lab. But then you know that because I answered the phone. What do you want? Twenty-seven..."

"What do I want? I've been waiting in the foyer of the Palace for three-quarters of an hour. What's keeping you?"

"It's a bit of an emergency, I've got to check some data from the radio telescope. Twenty-seven..."

"Look, can't it wait? It took ages to get tickets for this show. And what do you keep on saying 'twenty-seven' for?"

Helena resisted the temptation to say "It's your IQ, Robert." "I'm trying to remember a number. You phoned me right in the middle of a very long calculation. Twenty-seven..."

"Use a calculator like normal human beings. Helena darling, the curtain goes up in twenty minutes."

"I'll be with you by the first interval, Robert, I promise. I just need to finish this. It won't take long. Kiss kiss. Bye." She put the phone down before Robert could make any further protest. Then she froze. "Oh bugger, I've forgotten it. Thanks very much, Robert!" she screamed at the inert telephone.

Hawthorne strode into the Senior Common Room the following morning and nearly fell over Helena, asleep in one of the easy chairs near the door. "What's all this, what's all this? Sleeping on duty, eh?" Then he noticed the half-full mug of congealed instant coffee by her foot and the sheaves of paper on the table in front of her. "Good grief Helena, have you been working all night?"

Helena came to life, sat up and gazed at a spot six inches to the left of his head. "No, not all night. Only since one a.m. I went to see the new Lloyd-Webber musical at the Palace with Robert before then." She picked up the coffee mug. "Oh, yuck," she said and put it back on the floor where she'd found it.

The Professor peered at the top sheet of paper, filled with differential equations. "Your black hole, is it?"

She stood up. "Professor, I checked all of Stephen's calculations through twice last night. There isn't a single mistake in any of them."

"Well then, it must be a mistake in the observations like I said."

"That's why I'm going to speak to Stephen about it in half an hour."

"Oh. I wanted to talk to you about a new research programme I want to set up."

"Can't you come with me? Then we can talk on the way."

"I - I - "

Dr. Smith's voice floated in from the corridor. "Just give me twenty minutes to make myself presentable. I'll meet you in the car park."

Professor Hawthorne picked up the coffee mug. "Why can't people clean up after themselves?" he asked himself. He carried it at arm's length into the kitchen and dumped it in the sink.

Dr. Phillips had only been in the Astronomy Department a year and was therefore irritatingly keen. He had a mop of brown hair that bent at ninety degrees in the middle, and a moustache that was longer on one side than on the other. He also always wore a white coat. Hawthorne wondered if he wore it in the shower. "It's really fascinating," he was saying to Helena. "I mean, we've never discovered anything like this before. It's definitely not a mistake. There are so many readings, and anyway we've checked the machine out on known phenomena and it's all working as it should."

"So you've really found a black hole then?" Hawthorne asked.

"Well, not quite. More like point discontinuities in the structure of space-time. The observations seem to indicate that there are certain points at which electromagnetic radiation at all frequencies scatters in all directions, which I can only put down to a diffraction effect through a hole of zero radius."

Dr. Smith interrupted him. "Points? You mean there's more than one?"

Phillips was as cheerful as ever. "Oh yes. Twenty-nine in total." The other two's eyes widened. "Look, I'll show you." He produced a large computer graphic drawing of the familiar star map of the Milky Way, with the "points" marked with red crosses. "By measuring the amount of scattering of the various radio frequencies, we can work out where and when the point discontinuities originated. The more diffuse the fringes, the older the diffraction source. The first one is back here," he indicated a red cross with a pencil, "nearly twenty light-years away. And look at this. Each successive one is closer to the present position of the Earth - the most recent being here, about eleven light-months."

"It's almost as if they were following us," Hawthorne remarked, only half-seriously.

Phillips didn't catch the sarcastic hint. "It's funny you should say that. If you draw a curve through the points, it follows precisely the path of the Earth in space-time, accounting for the movement of the Solar System relative to the centre of the galaxy, the orbit of the Earth around the Sun and the rotation of the Earth on its axis. In other words, the Earth was at each of these points in space-time."

"What has the rotation of the Earth on its axis got to do with it?" asked Helena, trying to get a better look at the diagram which Professor Hawthorne was poring over.

Phillips smiled, making his moustache look even sillier than usual. "Not only," he said, licking his lips, "was the Earth at each of these points when the discontinuities were created, but they also nearly all correspond with the same point on the Earth's surface. All but the last eight, in fact."

Helena was impressed. "Really? You can measure it that accurately?"

"Oh yes," he declared airily as if he had said he could play Grieg's piano concerto with one hand tied behind his back. Hawthorne decided he hated him even more than before. "Within about five light-years, we can pin it down to the nearest five milliseconds and the nearest ten metres. Beyond that, it gets less precise, of course."

"Of course," the Professor snapped - more sharply than he had intended, because Phillips stopped smiling and his moustache drooped. The lad's only doing his job, he thought. He's just misguided enough to enjoy it. "Where is this point on the Earth's surface?"

Both the Professor and Helena expected him to point to a spot in the middle of the ocean somewhere, probably bang in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. Instead, he produced an Ordnance Survey map of Cornwall and spread it out on the table. "Right... er... here," he said, poking the map with a pencil.

"In a village called... _Rederring_?" Hawthorne exploded.

"It's not in the village itself," said Phillips leaning over the Professor's shoulder, "it's at this castle here."

Professor Hawthorne had had enough. He stood up straight, turned to Helena and exclaimed, "That's it. Joke over. I haven't time for any of this, I've got important work to do." He started towards the door, muttering, "Point discontinuities in the space-time continuum... centred around a castle in Cornwall..."

Helena called after him, "Professor, don't go. This isn't a joke. Honestly!" He stopped and looked at her sceptically.

Phillips stuttered, "I - I - It's all here, Professor." He held out a wad of paper, including the maps and some computer printouts, to him. "You're more than welcome to take it away and check it for yourself. See here, for instance." He jabbed at one of the crosses on the star map, inadvertedly dropping the other papers as he did so. "This discontinuity here, this corresponds to..." he hunted through the papers on the floor, "these readings here..." He picked up a computer listing, dropping the map.

Hawthorne sighed. "Look, Helena, Stephen, we all know what problems we can get with a new method of observation. We're all still novices. Learning to interpret the results is as much a task as inventing the machine in the first place."

"But it was your research that led to this particular machine's invention, Professor," replied Helena. "So you would be in the best position to judge of anyone..."

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Yes?" Phillips bellowed.

A young man wearing jeans, a T-shirt and an old-fashioned waistcoat came in, pushing a tea-trolley. "Would you like some coffee?" he said.

"Oh, yes please," replied Helena. The young man looked away again nervously. "Milk, no sugar."

Hawthorne was gazing out of the window at some sheep. Dr. Phillips asked, "Would you like some coffee, Professor Hawthorne?"

"Hmm? Oh, er, black, two sugars, please."

The young man handed the academics their drinks and retreated without saying a word. "One of my research students," said Phillips when he had gone.

Helena sipped her coffee and said, "So what are we going to do?"

"About this Rederring business?" The Professor turned back to his sheep-gazing. "What do you suppose could be there that would cause tears in the fabric of the space-time continuum?"

"Why don't we go and have a look?"

"Dr. Smith. What do you think we could possibly find in a castle near a remote country village in the middle of Cornwall? Little green men in a spaceship, perhaps? Doctor Who's Tardis?" Hawthorne flopped into a chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It's only half past eleven, he thought. What am I going to feel like by tea-time?

Helena didn't hear him. "We could go down at the weekend, stay overnight, come back the following day."

"We?"

"Aren't you interested? You are the Head of Department."

"But I mean... er, staying overnight, I mean..."

"What's the matter?"

Professor Hawthorne stood up and said in a stage whisper, so that Phillips could hear: " _What if the students find out_?"

He felt somewhat put out when she suddenly started to laugh. "Oh, Professor! Is _that_ what you're worried about? You think they'll think we're having an affair?"

" _Shhh_!" Hawthorne could feel the blood rising in his cheeks.

"Look, I'll invite Robert to come with us if you like, that'll scotch any rumours. Do you fancy a trip to Cornwall, Stephen? Make it a foursome?"

Phillips answered, "Well I'd like to, I mean I'm very interested to find out what's causing all of this, but I've got to go to Manchester this weekend to visit my aunt and uncle. She's quite poorly."

"Oh, sorry to hear that," replied Helena. She picked up her briefcase and walked to the door. "We'll let you know if we find anything, anyway."

"Great, thanks, Helena," said Phillips. "Thanks for your time, Professor."

"Don't mention it," Hawthorne mumbled as he shuffled through the door. Already he was having visions of Phillips spreading it around the University that Professor Hawthorne was a sex-crazed maniac. He remembered the time when one of his students had developed a crush on him, and was forced to leave. Shame, really. Bright young man, too.

That evening, Helena arrived at Mario's to find Robert waiting for her. "I'm sorry I'm late, Robert," she said.

Robert kissed her, quite passionately considering they were in public. "You're not late, I'm early. I didn't trust British Rail to get me there on time, so I got the earlier train. About the only time it's ever been on time."

"Table for two, sir?" said an oily-looking waiter in what might pass for an Italian accent.

"Yes, we have booked. Name of Anderson."

The waiter produced a pencil from his pocket, licked it and began to scrutinise a list pinned to a clipboard. "Anderrson, Anderrson... Ah yes, we 'ave eet. Come thees way, please."

"Shouldn't be all that hard to find a name beginning with 'A'," Helena remarked out of the corner of her mouth.

She decided to bring up the subject between the starters and the main course. "I thought... we could do with a little weekend break."

Robert looked up. "That's a wonderful idea! A long weekend in Paris... see the sights... dinner on the banks of the Seine..."

"Well, er, actually, I was thinking more of, er... Cornwall."

"Oh," said Robert with a shrug. "Well, that could be... quite nice, I suppose."

"There's a little village called Rederring. It looks ever so nice on the map. I thought we could stay in a guest house, have a look round, see the countryside..." Any minute now he's going to pull his "Oh, Helena!" face again, she thought.

"Yes, I suppose so," he said. Why did he have that feeling that she was plotting something?

"Oh good, we can make an early start on Saturday. The three of us won't have that much luggage - "

Plotting something? Guy Fawkes couldn't hold a candle to Dr. Helena Smith. "This Saturday? Are you serious? And what do you mean, the three of us?"

Helena spoke very slowly, as if afraid that too many words in too short a time might trigger off an explosion. "There's you, and me, and Professor Hawthorne. We're hoping - "

" _Professor Hawthorne_?"

Helena gave him a "Speak up, then perhaps the whole of Yorkshire might be able to hear you" look. "Professor Hawthorne?" he said again at low volume. "The balding old coot with the sideburns and the Cyril Smith belly? What kind of a romantic weekend is it going to be with him in tow?"

"Professor Hawthorne and I are planning to do some research there. There are some unusual astronomical events happening there. But I thought you might like to come as well, so we can make a nice weekend of it, and you can make sure that he doesn't... you know... try anything."

"He's as bent as a bishop's crook anyway," Robert began, then stopped as he realised that the waiter had arrived with the main course.

When the waiter had gone, Helena whispered, "He's not a homosexual. One of his students who was gay fancied him once, that's all. Anyway," she continued in a normal voice, "we're going down this weekend. I've booked a guest house for the three of us, one double room and one single."

"Oh very well then," he replied, glumness personified.

"Don't look so down in the dumps. It'll be nice. You'll enjoy it. And," she added as he took his first mouthful of tagliatelle, "you're driving."

7


	2. Chapter 2

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Two

"We're coming to a village called Westham," said Robert. "There's a T-junction at the end of this road. It says... Upper Westham to the left, and... Forrel to the right. Have you found it?"

Helena struggled with the map, trying to fold it against the creases. "Just a minute... Now we've got off the M5, at Junction 31..."

Robert's patience reached an all-time low. "Oh come on, Helena! That was over an hour ago!"

"I told you I was no good at map-reading," she retorted.

"Helena." Robert spoke very slowly. "You are one of the top astronomers in the country, if not the world. You plot star charts of hitherto unknown galaxies. And you can't read a bloody map of Cornwall?"

"I say," said a voice from behind them, "why don't we stop at the next pub and have a bite to eat? I must admit, my legs could do with a stretch."

"It looks like the next pub's not until we reach Forrel, which is seven miles away, Professor," answered Robert. "That is, assuming we're going the right way..."

"Oh no," Hawthorne said cheerfully. "If you turn left at the railway bridge at the end of the village, you come to a very nice place. I assume it's still there."

There was a silence, like the calm just after all four engines have stalled at eighteen thousand feet. "You mean you know where we are?"

"Yes, I was evacuated here during the Second World War. I lived with a family in Upper Westham."

"Do you know how to get to Rederring from here?"

"Now let me see... I think if we turn round, drive through Upper Westham, carry on for another five miles or so, we come to a place called Parrington or Harrington or something, and I _think_ Rederring's the other side of that."

"Turn round. OK. No problem."

"It's really nice driving through these Cornish country lanes. Brings it all flooding back to me, you know," Hawthorne remarked.

"Oh look!" shouted Helena suddenly. Robert hit the brake. The car zig-zagged to a stop, nearly colliding with the high hedges on either side.

"What's the matter?"

"A monkey-puzzle tree. Sorry. It isn't important."

Robert muttered something that the other two didn't hear. He started the car again.

They reached Rederring at half past one that afternoon. They had almost driven through it before they realised they were there. A church, a post office, a pub, a video shop with an enormous faded "Batman III" poster in the window, a few farmhouses. Not so much a village as a widening of the road. There was a word that seemed to sum it up, and that was _quaint_. "We can have some lunch in the pub and ask directions to the castle," said Helena. "OK, Robert?"

"Fine," replied Robert. Now they had arrived, he was beginning to enjoy it.

"Is that OK with you, Professor?" she called over her shoulder. But Hawthorne didn't reply. "Professor?"

"Hmm? Oh sorry, must have dozed off. I say, are we there?"

"We're going to have a spot of lunch in the pub and ask directions to the castle," said Robert.

"Good idea. Why didn't you think of doing that, Helena?" Hawthorne said, blinking and looking round.

Helena gave Robert one of her just-ignore-the-old-sexist-pig looks. Robert turned around. "I say, Professor, you call Helena by her first name but I've never heard her call you by yours."

"She's my... employee, it wouldn't be right," growled the old astrophysicist.

"I call the Professor of our department by his first name. And I'm only an ."

"He's never told me his first name," Helena whispered. "I think he's embarrassed about it."

"How dare you, _Doctor Smith_. I - I - It's important to maintain the correct - er, what's the word..."

"Etiquette?" Robert suggested.

"That's it, etiquette. Now, what were you saying about lunch?"

The pub's interior was covered with old horse-yokes and harnesses, and little horseshoes, medium-sized horseshoes, large horseshoes, and bloody-hell-you'd-have-to-find-a-horse-the-size-of-a-mammoth-to-wear-these horseshoes. Behind the bar was a gentleman who, to the Yorkshire trio's eyes, looked very Cornish. He had a ruddy, almost purplish face, his shirtsleeves were rolled up beyond his elbows, and he wore a white apron which hung from his waist, tied so tightly that it emphasised his considerable stomach. Quaint. Robert ordered a round of drinks while Helena perused the menu on the blackboard behind the barman's head. She relayed the contents to Professor Hawthorne, who was squinting to read it in vain. The three ordered their meals.

"Right, that's a lasagne, a chilli con carne and a steak and mushroom pie, all with chips," the barman repeated in a Scottish accent that would cut a diamond. "That's er..."

"Thirteen pounds ninety-five," said Helena, writing the figure in her cheque-book.

"Thirteen pounds ninety-five," said the barman a few seconds later after he had worked it out on his calculator. "Where will you be sitting?"

"Over there," replied Helena, pointing to a table by the window.

They sat down at the table with their drinks. A curious collage of horseshoes, seeming to make up the Union Jack, hung on the wall behind the Professor's head. "Professor Hawthorne, I know I'm not an astronomer or anything like that..." Robert began.

"What is it you do, Robert? Mediaeval music?"

"Early Baroque music actually. But anyway, Helena's been telling me a bit about what you've come to investigate, and I think I understand about these holes in the space-time continuum, but..."

"Yes?"

"Well, one thing is, if the Earth keeps passing through all these holes, why doesn't it get destroyed?"

"I thought I'd explained that," said Helena. "The holes, or discontinuities as we prefer to call them, originated at points in space _and time_ that the Earth, or rather this castle up the road, happened to pass through. So the discontinuities didn't exist until the castle arrived at those points. It's as if the castle itself created them. Though the last eight didn't come from there - the first of them came from somewhere in the village here, and the other seven are dotted all over America."

"But if you've now got a hole - a discontinuity in the space-time continuum, and the Earth is still there, why doesn't it get destroyed?"

"Ah, that's very interesting." The Professor took up the story. "You see, when it is created, the discontinuity is just a point - a hole of zero radius. As time goes on, however, the size of it increases. It's a bit like punching a hole in a piece of cloth, which then tears, making the hole bigger. But by the time the hole is big enough to cause any real damage - like a millionth of a millimetre in diameter, say - the Earth has moved away to another part of space."

"Why don't we get sucked back into it?"

"You don't get super-gravity effects the way you do with black holes, as there isn't a large mass forming the centre, and you don't get a warping of the space-time field around it as you find around any massive object." This is supposed to be my day off, Hawthorne thought, and I'm giving lectures in elementary theoretical physics.

"So what are you so concerned about these discontinuities for?" This was the question Robert had really wanted to ask. Unfortunately, the answer was delayed in coming because at that moment, the barman came over with their food. They noticed that his apron stretched right down to just above his ankles, and flapped around his legs as he walked.

Helena looked up and gave him a warm smile. "Excuse me," she said, "could you tell us how to get to the castle?"

"Ruddigore Castle?" said the barman.

"Is that what it's called? The one to the north of here?"

"Aye. If you turn right down the lane with Electronic City on the corner - "

"What's that?" asked Helena.

"The video shop," Robert told her.

"Go up there, up the hill, for about a mile, you can't miss it."

"Thank you so much." Helena beamed at the barman again. The barman returned the smile, and went the long way round to get back behind the bar again. He continued to smile in their direction whilst he fiddled with the cassette player. A moment later the pub's Tannoy system delivered Prince's "I Want You So Much" to every corner.

"Looks like Robert's got a rival for your affections," remarked Hawthorne to Helena.

"Bloody pop music," said Robert, giving her a kiss, momentarily forgetting that he still had some lasagne in his mouth. "Sorry," he said immediately afterwards, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Oh yes, I was asking you why you're so concerned about these discontinuities?"

"Well as I said, the holes, if you want to call them that, increase in size after they're created," said Hawthorne after hurriedly swallowing a mouthful of steak and mushroom pie. "When they get to maybe a millionth of a millimetre across, individual atoms can fall through."

"Where to?"

"No-one knows. Once that starts to happen, the tearing process can accelerate. It then becomes only a matter of time before something as large as the Earth or even the Sun can fall through. Now if the Earth is leaving a trail of... punctures in the space-time continuum in its wake, and new ones could be created at any time, the composite effect could be such that the fabric of space-time is so weakened that it collapses completely."

"Collapses completely? You mean, like the end of the Universe?" Robert laughed.

"Quite possibly," said the Professor seriously.

They finished their meals, discarded their napkins and made for the door. "Oh, I've just thought," Helena declared just before they reached it. "We'd better find out where our hotel is before we head up towards the castle, in case it's late when we finish there."

"Ask your boyfriend behind the bar," said Hawthorne. Robert scowled at him.

She rummaged in her handbag and produced a scrap of paper, on which she had written the name and address of the guest house she had booked. "Excuse me," she called out to the barman who was drying a glass, "can you tell us where the Parklands Hotel is, please? We've booked rooms there for the night."

The barman's face broke into a broad grin. "It's just round the back of here," he said. "If you bring your bags in, I'll take them up to your rooms for you."

"Oh thank you, that's really kind of you. Can you let the owner know that we're here?"

"You already have. You're speaking to him."

Robert groaned. "Oh, so you're Mister... Drummond," Helena read from the piece of paper.

"Aye, that's me. And you are...?"

"This is Professor Hawthorne, and this is my fiancé, Mr. Robert Anderson. My name is Dr. Helena Smith."

Drummond didn't appear the least concerned on learning that Helena was engaged. Still grinning from ear to ear, he said, "That's fine, consider yourselves checked in." He dried his hands on his apron, drew a pencil out of a beer glass and scribbled on a pad under the bar. "Hawthorne, Anderson and Smith. You're going up to the castle now?"

"Yes," said Robert. He felt he had to put in his oar. One syllable wasn't much of an oar, but it was a start.

"Weeell," Drummond rubbed his chin and continued, "if you hurry there's a guided tour at two-thirty. You might find it interesting..."

"Oh yes, thank you," Helena said quickly. She got the feeling that there was something distinctly... unusual about Drummond behind his polite, friendly exterior. He wasn't looking quite at her...

"If you bring your bags in then, I'll take them up for you, and I'll show you to your rooms when you get back."

"There's something strange about him," Helena whispered to Robert while they were unloading the car.

"I dunno, he just seemed all over you." Robert slammed the car boot hard.

"But he wasn't looking directly at me, he seemed to be gazing at something behind me all the time..."

"Robert! Could you give an old man a hand?" the Professor gasped. He was trying to pick up a battered suitcase the size of a battleship. So far he had only succeeded in dragging it along the ground by about six inches.

"Professor!" said Helena incredulously. "We're only staying one night, maybe two at the outside. What do you need all that stuff for?"

"Always carry for every eventuality. Learnt that when I was an evacuee."

"Looks like he still is," Robert muttered as he and Helena dragged the case into the pub.

It only took three minutes to drive up the lane to the castle. If _castle_ was the word; it looked as though the architect had started to build a typically Tudor country house, then had a brainstorm and put grey stone towers and turrets everywhere. Some of them were in ruins, and smothered in ivy. The two central towers at the front had clearly been restored, however. As they drew up the drive, they spotted a sign saying "Visitors' Car Park", pointing to a totally arbitrary section of the front lawn. The only other vehicles there were a coach and a 2CV with a German licence plate.

It was beginning to rain. They hurried inside the house. A sweet-looking middle-aged lady sat at a kiosk just inside the door. She smiled pleasantly and said to them, "Three is it? There's a guided tour just about to start."

Professor Hawthorne stepped forward. After all, this was an investigation by the Astronomy Department of the University of North Yorkshire and he was the Head of Department. "Yes, three please," he declaimed, like Sir Larry Olivier in Henry V.

"One Senior Citizen?"

The Professor looked surprised, shocked, and hurt, as if King Harry had just been run through. "Madam, I am only sixty-two!"

"Oh sorry dear. Well, it does no harm to ask, does it? That's six pounds then."

Professor Hawthorne wondered if any insult in the world was worse than being called "dear" by this woman. He set his face into his grim-but-dignified pose, usually reserved for Graduation Day ceremonies when little brothers and sisters of graduands made fun of his academic regalia. He handed her the correct money and strode forward. Once more unto the breach, dear friends... "Is anything the matter, Dr. Smith?"

Helena's shoulders had begun to shake. Her eyes connected with Robert's. All of a sudden she had a coughing fit. "Oh, nothing, nothing," she said, trying to keep her voice level. "It's just a bit musty in here."

The Professor merely said, "Hmmph," and made for the arch at the far end of the foyer.

They found the party for the guided tour in the long hallway beyond. Darkness sat there skulking beneath the high ceiling, in retreat from the 1920s-style electric lamps fixed to the heavy oak panels. A few suits of armour stood guard at equal intervals. Otherwise the hall was practically empty, apart from their fellow tourists, and the proud, almost malevolent stares of the faces in the paintings arrayed around the walls. Each was a full-length, life-size picture of a man, dressed in some kind of military uniform. Helena studied the face of the one nearest to the door. It was a young man, not at all bad looking, with dark hair and a thick moustache that curled up at the ends. He wore the uniform of an officer in the Dragoon Guards, round about the time of the Napoleonic wars perhaps, with a brass-coloured helmet and cuirass, and tall black boots. She thought he looked rather nice, but stern, maybe even a bit fierce, as if he had had to do something horrible that was against his real nature...

The tourist party consisted of a group of Americans, dressed in baseball caps, flowery shirts and tartan trousers, and four German youths who looked like they were on a youth hostelling holiday. Everyone seemed to be talking as loudly as they possibly could. A nervous, willowy old gentleman in an old-fashioned black suit was trying to motion for silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you give me your attention..."

"Matthias!" boomed a German voice near Hawthorne's ear. "Warum hast du den Kartoffelsalat in meinem Sack verpackt?"

"Quiet!" Helena's shrill soprano cut through the noise like a guillotine. There was instant silence.

"Thank you miss," said the man in the black suit. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are now in the Great Hall. Observe if you will the portraits of the Lords of Ruddigore displayed here, starting with the first Baronet, Sir Rupert Murgatroyd, who died in 1608."

"Where did you learn to shout like that?" Robert whispered to Helena.

"Doing first-year Physics lectures. Shh, I'm trying to listen."

"Sir Rupert's chief passion was the persecution of witches," the curator was saying. "It is said that on one occasion, he sentenced twenty-two women to be burnt at the stake."

"I wish my wife's mother had been one of them," mumbled an American voice.

"However, his gruesome obsession eventually was his undoing. One day one of his - er - victims, as the flames engulfed her, spoke a curse on him and his family. Each Lord of Ruddigore must commit at least one crime every day, or else die in dreadful agony."

"Smart!" said an American teenager.

"Sir Rupert, regarding himself a man of high moral character, refused to commit any dastardly deed, and so twenty-four hours later he perished."

"Was sagt er? Ich kann ihn gar nicht verstehen."

"Shh!" hissed Helena to the German youths.

"Each successive Baronet, depicted in the paintings you see here, suffered the same fate as Sir Rupert. Some prolonged their lives by embarking on a career of villainy. Yet in the end, each one resolved to sin no more, and died a hideous death. It is said that their spirits still haunt the Castle."

"A haunted castle?" exclaimed the American youngster. "Double smart!"

"However, events took a happier turn at the time of Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd, who was born in 1790. He, like his ancestors, recoiled at the prospect of a life of crime. He therefore determined to find a solution to his predicament. He reasoned that for a Lord of Ruddigore to refuse to commit his daily crime was tantamount to suicide. Yet at the time, under English law, suicide was itself a criminal act and so also was the attempt of suicide. So by refusing to commit a crime he fulfilled the conditions of the curse each day. He changed his name to Robin Oakapple, married his sweetheart, sold the Castle to Sir James Pemberton of Harrington Hall and retired to his farm in the village of Rederring. Sir James' great-great-grandson, George Pemberton, sold Ruddigore Castle to the National Trust in 1948." The curator shuffled off down the hall. At the far end were two beautiful oak doors. He opened them and led the tourist party through. "Now if you step this way, ladies and gentlemen, we shall come to the Banqueting Hall..." His voice echoed from the passage beyond.

The three academics trailed at the back of the party. They peered at the paintings of the long-dead Murgatroyds. "Look at their eyes!" Robert remarked. "They seem to follow you all round the room..."

"Oh shut up Robert," said Helena. "You know how I feel about ghosts and things."

"Ah, diddums den," said Robert, tickling her.

"Keep up, troops! Remember we're on a fact-finding mission." Professor Hawthorne was back in King Harry mode. They hurried after the party, just in time to hear the curator begin his next speech, explaining the history of the Banqueting Hall.

The tour eventually reached its conclusion. All three academics ended up being thoroughly bored. They trudged back to Robert's car. "Well, we didn't find anything of interest to us," said Hawthorne bitterly. "Nothing that might explain the discontinuities."

Robert jerked the driver's door open. "What were you expecting?" he snapped. "An alien spaceship? Doctor Who's Tardis?"

Helena gave him a sidelong look. "We haven't looked at the grounds yet."

"It doesn't look like there's much there," said Robert miserably. "Still, we can drive around, I suppose."

Twenty minutes later they had driven the length and breadth of the grounds: two roads which crossed where the castle was, fields full of sheep and a small flower garden. There was an abandoned summer-house - little more than four crumbling pillars and a roof - at one end of one of the roads; the other end appeared to be the middle of nowhere. "There was a building here once that was the entrance to an underground mausoleum, where all the Baronets up to Sir Roderic were buried," said Helena, who was looking at a guide book. "They must have filled in the hole when Sir Ruthven sold the place, I suppose." The other road was the one they had driven along; at the other end was another gate, through which the road continued towards Harrington. Nothing. It was now nearly five o'clock. "Shall we go back to the hotel?" Helena suggested.

"Might as well," answered Robert. The Professor said nothing. He was looking out of the rain-swept rear window, apparently brooding on something. Within five minutes they were back at the pub in Rederring. Drummond spotted their car pulling up and ran out to meet them. His apron billowed up in the wind.

Robert wound down the window to hear him. "There's a car park round the back," Drummond said. "The hotel's on the other side of the car park. I'll meet you in the hall."

The "hotel" was actually an old barn, restored and converted into four smart modern chalets. In the middle was a small lobby, which seemed to double as Drummond's office. The ubiquitous 586 PC computer filled a desk. Drummond was standing there, two keys in his hand. "I've put your luggage in your rooms. Now, Dr. Smith and Mr. Anderson are in Room One, Chalet One and Professor Hawthorne is in Room Three, Chalet Four."

"I say, are we at opposite ends?" exclaimed Hawthorne. "Can't you place us a bit closer together?"

"I'm sorry sir, but all the single rooms are in Chalet Four, and if I put you in a double room I'll have to charge you at the double room rate. And all the double rooms in Chalets Two and Three are full," Drummond explained, eyes fixed to the floor. There's definitely something odd about him, Helena thought...

"Oh well, I suppose it'll have to do," Hawthorne grumbled. "Lead on, MacDuff," then he flushed as he realised he was speaking to a Scotsman, and a large one at that, who might not take too kindly to being called MacDuff. But Drummond didn't react.

He led them to Helena's and Robert's room first. "Mr. Drummond," Helena ventured, "do you mind me asking how you came to be running this place?" Drummond raised a quizzical eyebrow so she went on, "Only you coming from Scotland, to a tiny place in the middle of Cornwall..."

"Oh, that's no mystery," said Drummond with a smile. "My great-grandfather was born here. He moved to Ayr when he was twenty-five, round about 1910. I thought it would be nice to return to my roots, so to speak." They reached the door to Room One, Chalet One. Drummond turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The room looked nice and clean, but four pink walls and brown velvet curtains and carpet made Robert feel like he was about to sleep inside a giant Strawberry Surprise. "The bathroom's through that far door, if you want to use the video machine you have to put two pounds in the meter here. And now I'll show the Professor to his room."

He led Hawthorne out of the chalet, along the courtyard and into Chalet Four. Room Three was on the upper floor. "Bathroom through the far door, video machine as before, if you need anything just give me a knock opposite."

"Your room's the room opposite?" Hawthorne asked him.

"Yes. Anything at all, just give me a knock," replied Drummond with another broad grin. He left the room so inconspicuously that the Professor noticed every detail of his exit. He's like Dr. Phillips, he thought. He _never_ takes his apron off. And then his blood froze; it wasn't Helena he was looking at in the pub at lunchtime...

17


	3. Chapter 3

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Three

Hawthorne cautiously opened his chalet door and peered into the hallway. Relief; there was no sign of Drummond. He closed the door behind him as quietly as he could and crept down the stairs, every moment expecting their host to materialise in front of him like Captain Kirk. Fortunately he made it to his colleagues' chalet undetected. He tapped on the door, very gently and whispered, "Helena!"

There was no response. He tapped again, only marginally more loudly. "Helena! Robert! It's me! Will you let me in!"

The door opened. "What on Earth's the matter?" demanded Robert.

The Professor shot through the door and shut it behind him, quietly but firmly. "I don't want to get cornered by that Drummond character," he said.

"Why? What do you think he'll do?"

Hawthorne stared at Robert. He appeared to be genuinely surprised. Hawthorne shook his head. "Oh, nothing. Never mind. What are we going to do today? Go straight home?"

"You're the astrophysicists, you're the ones doing the observations, you tell me," said Robert with a shrug. "What do you want to do, Helena?"

"What? Oh, sorry, I was totally engrossed in this book. What were you saying?"

"We've had our breakfast, it's Sunday morning, are there any more observations we need to make or shall we head back?" Professor Hawthorne asked with exaggerated patience.

"I don't think there's anything more to do here. Unless there's something else at the castle that we didn't see. Perhaps there's something buried there."

Robert gave a cynical laugh. "Apart from the accursed Baronets of Ruddigore, you mean?"

Helena rummaged in a bag and produced the heavily-crumpled map of Cornwall. She spread it out on the bed. "Stephen said he could pin-point the spot to within ten metres. He worked out that the origin of the discontinuities should be within the castle, or very close to it. I don't know, maybe there's a basement that they wouldn't let us see. Maybe it's in there."

"What?" Robert retorted. "A mad scientist working on a modern-day Frankenstein's monster?"

"It's a paradox," said Professor Hawthorne suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" said Helena.

"This story of the Murgatroyds' curse. I was thinking about it yesterday as we drove back here. They're supposed to have died in agony if they refused to commit a crime each day."

"What about it?" asked Robert.

"It's an insoluble paradox. Look, if Sir So-and-so Murgatroyd could only die by refusing to commit a crime, that means he could only die by effectively attempting suicide, since refusing to commit one's daily crime was certain to end in death."

"Could he _only_ die by refusing to commit his daily crime?" asked Helena. "I would have thought he could have died by more normal means as well, like old age or disease or something."

"I'm not sure about that, but I got the impression that he wouldn't have got away with it that easily. Witches' curses, you know, they'd make sure that the victim had to suffer no matter what he did."

Here I am, Robert thought, in the presence of two of the world's greatest authorities in the fields of astronomy and astrophysics, and they're talking about witches and curses like Hansel and bloody Gretel.

The Professor went on, "If we assume that for a Murgatroyd to die he had to refuse to commit his daily crime and therefore attempt suicide, that means that in this case he had committed a crime after all - the attempt of suicide - at least, until they changed the law."

"But that's how Sir, whatever his name was, the last one, got round the curse," Helena replied. "Even doing nothing, he was still committing his crime every day so he would never have to die."

"And therefore he was not really refusing to commit his crime. And if he wasn't refusing to commit his crime, he wasn't really attempting suicide. But if he didn't attempt suicide, and he didn't do anything else wrong that day, he would die. But we've already established that he could only die by attempting suicide - by refusing to commit his crime that day."

"No, wait a minute." Robert was getting interested in spite of himself. "If he refused to commit his crime as a kind of suicide attempt in order to fulfil the conditions of the curse, surely he'd have done it to live, not to die."

"In which case it would not have been a genuine suicide attempt." The Professor made his triumphant conclusion. "Whichever way you look at it, it's a paradox!"

"Good God." The two men turned to look at Helena. "We've got a real-life Schrödinger's Cat."

"A what?"

"You've heard of Schrödinger's Cat, haven't you, Robert?" Helena said. "The thought experiment to demonstrate the Uncertainty Principle in quantum mechanics. There is a chance that a radioactive particle can decay, triggering something which will kill a cat placed inside a box. So once the experiment has begun, the cat may be alive or may be dead, but you don't know which."

"Yes, I've heard of it," he replied. "But what's that got to do with Sir Thingummy up the road?"

"The Schrödinger's Cat experiment seems to indicate that there are two alternative realities, existing side by side, and you only enter one or the other when you look in the box. Don't you see?" she went on as Robert continued to look blank. "When a Murgatroyd apparently dies under the conditions of the curse, a paradox situation is set up. Two possibilities exist: in the one, he is dead, in the other, he isn't. Two alternative realities come into being from that moment. The space-time continuum splits into two streams!"

"Are you suggesting that this curse business is the cause of your discontinuities in the space-time continuum? Are you serious?" Any minute now, Robert thought, I'm going to find this has all been a very bad dream.

"It's the only lead we've had. I think we should check it out. We should - "

There was a knock on the door. Helena opened it to reveal Drummond, smiling servilely and rubbing his hands on his ever-present apron. "Excuse me, but I was wondering if you would be staying here tonight?" he asked.

Professor Hawthorne began to speak but Helena cut him short. "Oh, yes, Mr. Drummond, we've still got some work to do up at the castle."

"That's fine, as long as I know," Drummond said and retreated.

Hawthorne watched him through the window, bustling across the courtyard with his apron flapping in the wind, and asked, "Why do we have to stay another night?"

Helena said, "We should go back to Ruddigore Castle and look up the dates that each Baronet of Ruddigore is supposed to have died on. Then if they match the dates that Stephen predicted, we'll know we're on the right track."

"Oh very well," sighed the Professor, "but can we go first thing tomorrow? Please?"

Helena gave him a strange look. "Are you afraid of Mr. Drummond?"

"No, I just..."

"I thought there was something odd about him in the pub yesterday. He wouldn't look at me properly. Do you think he might be, you know, er... gay?"

Hawthorne didn't answer. "Is that it?" asked Robert. "Do you think he fancies you?"

Hawthorne peered at himself in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe. "It isn't even as if I look like a homosexual..." He turned to face the other two anxiously. "Do I?"

The woman on the door was surprised when the three academics arrived. "We don't normally get people making return visits," she said. "'Specially not two days on the trot."

"We want to find out more about the history of the Murgatroyd family," replied Helena. "Who they were, when they lived, when they died, you know."

"Ooh, well in that case you'd better speak to Mr. Goodheart."

"Pardon me?"

"The curator. He knows all about that side of thing. His family have been here for hundreds of years, you know."

"Really," said Professor Hawthorne, gazing through the window at some sheep.

She picked up the telephone and dialled a single digit. "Mr. Goodheart? There are three people here who would like to speak to you." She cupped her hand over the receiver and asked, "Er, could I have your names, please?"

Helena replied, "Dr. Smith, Professor Hawthorne and Mr. Anderson from the University of North Yorkshire."

"Ooh!" the woman exclaimed and returned to the telephone. "Mr. Goodheart? There's a Dr. Smith, a _Professor_ Hawthorne and a Mr. Anderson."

Hawthorne's chest swelled just a little at this. _Professor_ Hawthorne. A man of substance, importance. Perhaps in a year or two's time, _Sir_ Mervyn Hawthorne. Maybe even _Lord_ Hawthorne. He looked round the musty hallway and imagined what it would be like to belong to the nobility. _Earl_ Hawthorne. I like that, he thought. Got a good ring to it. He envied the Lords of Ruddigore, curse or no curse. He could see himself now, Earl Hawthorne, striding into the House of Lords, his ermine robes flowing behind him, as loudly the trumpets bray...

"Good morning." Hawthorne nearly jumped out of his skin. The sound was not so much like a trumpet braying as a fingernail being scraped down a blackboard. "My name is Peter Goodheart. I am the curator of this property. How may I be of assistance?"

It was their guide of the previous day. Helena gave him her warm smile. "Good morning, Mr. Goodheart. My name is Dr. Helena Smith, this is Mr. Robert Anderson and this is Professor Hawthorne. We're from the University of North Yorkshire."

"Good morning," said Goodheart to each in turn, shaking them limply by the hand. "Professor Hawthorne... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your first name?"

Hawthorne muttered something inaudible.

"Mervyn, did you say?" repeated Goodheart too loudly. Robert and Helena caught each other's eyes and did their very best not to let their bland smiles crack. Hawthorne nodded. "Stout name," Goodheart said. "The twentieth Baronet was a Mervyn." The Professor gave Helena and Robert a look which read, One word and you're history. "Now what was it you wanted to know?"

Professor Hawthorne felt he had to regain control of the situation. Pulling himself together he said, "We want to find out as much as we can about the history of the Lords of Ruddigore - who they were, when they lived, and especially when and where they died."

"Oh certainly - nothing easier." The old curator looked tickled pink to be interviewed by three academics. "Genealogists, are you?"

Hawthorne began, "Well, not exactly - "

"It's an inter-departmental investigation," Robert interrupted.

Goodheart seemed even more pleased. "If you'd like to follow me into the Library, I have volumes describing the complete history of the Murgatroyd family." He turned and led them through the archway into the Great Hall.

The paintings seemed more frightening now they were on their own. Helena couldn't help but look at the picture that had caught her eye yesterday, the nice-but-fierce one. The expression on his face was the same - it must have been the same - but somehow it seemed more desperate, as if it was... _pleading_ with her... She suddenly realised that the others had gone, into the passage at the far end of the hall. She didn't run after them, she just walked. Quickly.

Goodheart was an efficient curator. He seemed to have memorised the entire history of Ruddigore Castle. Volume after volume, reference after reference, he knew where to look to find every available scrap of information about the Murgatroyds from the time of Henry VIII. The three academics were running out of paper and Professor Hawthorne was developing a severe case of writer's cramp, but their guide showed no sign of slowing down. He was thrilled to bits to find people genuinely interested in what he could tell them. Finally he closed the last volume, saying, "And that's as far as my knowledge goes. Sir Ruthven died childless on December the 17th, 1866. His nephew George, the son of Despard and Margaret, inherited the title, Despard having died fifteen years before. He left Basingstoke soon afterwards and effectively disappeared off the face of the Earth. I believe he emigrated to America, but it's possible that he went under an assumed name - he ran up gambling debts and made himself rather unpopular. I tried to trace him, but not knowing his alias, identifying him amongst the thousands of men who arrived in the New World at that time proved impossible. It's a great shame - I should have loved to have met the present Lord of Ruddigore," he concluded wistfully.

Professor Hawthorne looked at his watch. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. "Good Lord, we've been writing for over three hours!"

Goodheart leapt to his feet. "I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm supposed to be taking another tour round the house now. If you'd like to wait in my office till I'm finished, I'll bring you some tea, and you can ask me anything else you want then." He led them into a small room off the passageway that led back into the Great Hall, assured them once again that he'd be right back, and disappeared.

Robert glanced at the mountain of paper in front of him. He now knew more about the Murgatroyd family than his own. "Well," he said to no-one in particular, "what do you make of that, then?"

Helena held up a piece of paper. "I've got down here what we most need to know - the dates that the Baronets died on. Now, let's check it against Stephen's chart..." She fished inside her briefcase for the printout Phillips had produced. Hawthorne, without saying a word, took it out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. "Oh. Thank you. Now let's see..."

Neither the Professor nor Robert could resist looking over her shoulder whilst she checked the figures. "Yes... yes..." As each date was verified, her voice sounded more and more incredulous until at last she looked up and said, in a flat, even tone, "Every date matches. Exactly. Right up until Sir Ruthven, the last one Mr. Goodheart knew about. That's twenty-two accounted for at least. Sir Ruthven lived and died in Rederring village in 1866, which is where the twenty-second discontinuity comes from. And the rest originated in America, starting with this one in Chicago in 1876."

"Could that be the last one Mr. Goodheart mentioned - what was his name, George?" Robert asked. "But he said he couldn't trace him."

"We've a big advantage, the star chart gives us a clue as to when and where to look. If he used his real name after he arrived there, it shouldn't be all that hard to find him. And it gives dates and places for six ones after him. If we can find out about him, we should be able to trace his descendants, and if they match up as well, then that would clinch it."

Hawthorne was sheep-gazing again. "I find it incredible," he said very slowly, "that a witch's curse in the seventeenth century could have the potential to destroy the entire Universe."

"So what can we do?" asked Robert, joining the Professor at the window.

"There are two things we must do." The Professor turned to face his two colleagues. "First, we must do as Helena says and verify the sources of the final seven discontinuities. If, and I stress _if_ they match, then..." he paused, took a deep breath and continued, "we must find a way to travel back in time to 1608 and prevent this curse from being made in the first place."

Robert looked at Helena.

Helena looked at Robert.

Both looked at Professor Hawthorne. He returned their stares evenly. "Why not? We've observed rifts in the space-time continuum. We know that they could mean the total collapse of the continuum at any time. We seem to have established that their cause is something which, two days ago, we would all have laughed at. Why can't we find a method to travel back in time?"

Robert swung himself up on to the window ledge. He continued to stare. Finally he laughed.

Helena waved him silent. "No, listen, Robert. The Professor's right. By observing the discontinuities that already exist very closely, we may be able to construct an artificial one ourselves, which if it's carefully controlled, could take us to the point in space-time where we want to go..."

"A time tunnel? To this place in 1608?" He broke off quickly as he heard footsteps in the passage outside. Then the door opened and Mr. Goodheart entered, pushing a trolley laden with tea and cakes. The crockery was finest bone china; the teapot was real silver. Goodheart was doing his best to live up to his name.

"I'm sorry I've been so long. Please, help yourselves to whatever you'd like." He handed each of them in turn a cup of tea, then did the rounds with the sugar bowl. Only Professor Hawthorne took sugar.

"He needs all the sweetening he can get," whispered Robert to Helena. Helena gave him a Look.

"Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?" Goodheart asked brightly.

"We've got all the information we need for our research, at least for the time being," replied the Professor. "If we find there's anything we've missed, we'll get in touch straight away."

"Certainly. Anything I can do to help. Look," Goodheart scribbled on a piece of Castle Ruddigore-headed notepaper, "the office phone and fax numbers are at the top, this is my phone at home."

"Mr. Goodheart," said Helena with a mouth full of sponge cake, "can you tell me anything about the man in the painting next to the entrance? The young one?"

"Oh, Sir Roderic, you mean? He was the last Baronet to die here, before his successor, Sir Ruthven, sold the castle to the Pembertons. The story goes that he once disguised himself and went to live in the village of Rederring under an assumed name. There he got engaged to a girl named Hannah Trusty. But on the day of their wedding she discovered his true identity and broke off their engagement. He was practically a recluse for the rest of his life, committing his crime every day, until one day, in 1815, he could stand it no longer. He lay in bed, refusing to do or say anything, and waited for death to overtake him. Poor man."

If tucking into another slice of sponge cake was a sign of being overcome with emotion, then Helena was overcome. But more probably it was a sign that she was extremely hungry, not having had any lunch. They finished their tea, expressed their gratitude to Mr. Goodheart and took their leave.

"So, we've got to check with the authorities in the States if there was a George Murgatroyd who died in Chicago in 1876, and whether he had any children, and when and where they died, and if they match the places and times indicated on Stephen's chart," said Helena, as they walked back to the car.

"And we've got to invent a time machine," added Robert. "Any ideas, Mervyn?"

If looks could kill, then Hawthorne would have stripped Robert down to his component quarks. "Professor Hawthorne is the name, _Mister Anderson_. And for God's sake," he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, " _Don't tell Drummond_!"

That night, Hawthorne dreamed he was falling through holes in the space-time continuum. Falling, falling... then he was trapped inside the canvas of a painting, a two-dimensional shadow of his real self. He tried to scream but no sound came out of his mouth, which wouldn't move anyway. Footsteps approached along the dark hallway before him. He could just make out the outline of a man. He could not see his face, which was shrouded in darkness, but he wore a luminous white apron which reached his ankles. As the figure came closer, the apron shone brighter and brighter until it was almost blinding. And a voice said, in a Scottish accent, "Is there anything I can _do_ for you, Mervyn?" He woke with a cry, breathing heavily. There was some scuffling on the landing outside, then a knock on the door and a nervous Scottish voice said, "Is everything alright, Professor Hawthorne?"

Hawthorne began to panic and then realised. It was a woman's voice. He opened the door.

A small, middle-aged woman with curlers in her hair stood there. "Sorry to disturb you, Professor Hawthorne, but it sounded as though you were in distress."

"Oh, no, no," Hawthorne responded as nonchanantly as he could, hoping that nothing was on display that shouldn't be. "Just a bad dream, that's all."

"Ah, I'll make you a nice cup of warm milk, that'll settle you down. Oh, excuse me, I never introduced myself. I'm Mrs. Drummond. But you can call me Morag."

" _Mrs_. Drummond! You mean - Mr. Drummond's married!"

"Aye, for the past fifteen years, and very happily I may say too."

"Mrs. Drummond! Morag! Thank you! Thank you so much!" The Professor laughed, almost hysterically. He kissed the woman on the forehead.

Mrs. Drummond looked more concerned than ever. "Are you _sure_ you're alright, Professor Hawthorne?"

"Never felt better, Mrs. Drummond - Morag. Never better..." After his cup of warm milk, he lay down and slept for seven glorious, dreamless hours.

27


	4. Chapter 4

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Four

Hawthorne was struggling to finish the "Guardian" crossword when there was a knock on the door. "Come in?"

It was Helena. "Ah, Dr. Smith. Nine letters, 'Dame Kiri's performance? Sounds medical!', something P, something something, A something, something something, N."

"Operation," said Helena without thinking. "Professor, I've got the information from America." Hawthorne looked blank. "You know, about the Murgatroyds. They faxed me just now. Take a look." She handed him a sheet of paper.

"The Murgatroyds faxed you?"

Helena couldn't be sure if the Professor was having one of his thick-as-a-brick days or one of his let's-wind-up-Helena-by-pretending-to-be-as-thick-as-a-brick days. She kept her voice even. "No, the Records Office. They're very efficient at tracing people, even that far back. Apparently George Murgatroyd settled in Chicago, married in 1868, had a son called Henry and was shot dead in 1876 by one of his gambling associates for non-payment of debts."

"But I thought these Lords of Ruddigore couldn't die by natural means. I mean, like being murdered."

"That's the funny thing. You see, he didn't actually die there and then. No-one could explain it, at least, not till now. He was shot six times apparently, in the chest at point-blank range. Made quite a nasty mess I imagine. It was as if he was dead, but he maintained a pulse for twenty-four hours or so after the shooting, until midnight the following night..."

The Professor stared at the paper. "According to this," he said, "his son Henry was taken by his mother to live in a small town near Boston. He seemed to live a quiet life as a schoolteacher until he died in 1900. I wonder what he did for his daily crime? None of the others seem to have done anything particularly bad, apart from this one here, Charles."

"What did he do?"

"He ran for State Governor in 1960," the Professor replied without looking up. Then he stopped, stared again at the faxsheet and went on, "So how do these dates and places match Stephen's chart?"

Dr. Smith sat in the one remaining comfy chair and looked straight at Professor Hawthorne. "They all match, up to and including Charles' death in New York in 1965."

"But the last one listed is ... oh, I don't believe this! John Paul George Ringo, son of Charles, born in New York in 1964. What happened to him? Don't tell me his mother throttled him for getting the words of 'All You Need Is Love' wrong?"

She leaned forward in her chair. "Charles was the twenty-ninth Lord of Ruddigore and his death matches the twenty-ninth and last discontinuity. This John Paul George Ringo must be alive somewhere."

Hawthorne put down the paper and stared into space. "The reigning Baronet of Ruddigore..."

Helena went on, "We have to find this John Murgatroyd. If he dies, we'd have another discontinuity on our hands, and that could be the straw that breaks the space-time continuum's back."

"Actually, I don't think we need worry about any future Murgatroyds," said Hawthorne. "I've been thinking about the nature of the paradox. You see, it rests on the fact that refusing to commit one's daily crime was itself a crime, that is, the attempt of suicide."

"But the attempt of suicide is no longer a crime," she finished for him.

"Nevertheless, we still have twenty-nine rifts in the space-time continuum to worry about. Stephen's observations indicate that as time goes on, the rifts will continue to get wider. Who knows when the entire Universe will go - fop?"

"It may still be worth finding John Murgatroyd," Helena said. "I was thinking about what we would do if - _when_ we get back to 1608." Hawthorne raised an eyebrow. "I mean, how we'd go about preventing the curse from taking place. I don't know, but I thought perhaps a flesh-and-blood Baronet of Ruddigore in our party might be useful."

"What do you suppose he could say? 'Excuse me, Sir Rupert, my name's Sir John, I'm the thirtieth Baronet, from nearly four hundred years in the future, I've come back in time to prevent you from getting cursed by a witch and putting our whole family, not to mention the entire Universe, in jeopardy?'"

"If it comes to that, what do you suppose _we_ could say? 'Excuse me Sir Rupert, we're a couple of scientists from the University of North Yorkshire, we're from nearly four hundred years in the future, we've come back in time to prevent you from getting cursed by a witch and putting the entire Universe, not to mention your whole family, in jeopardy?'"

Hawthorne rubbed his eyes. God, he thought, it isn't even coffee-time yet. "All right, point taken. But why do you think we need our Beatle friend?"

"I'm not sure, but I thought he might have a better chance of saying the right thing, whatever it is, to his ancestor than we have."

"OK, fair enough. Any chance of a coffee?"

"Black, two sugars, I know," Helena called as she opened the door.

It was a few minutes before she returned. "What kept you?" asked the Professor.

"I met Robert in the Senior Common Room," she replied. "The Music Department's being re-decorated, so they're having to come into Physics. I asked him to try and trace John Murgatroyd. I gave him the information we received from America. He said, 'I am a bit busy,' so I reminded him that the existence of the Universe depends on it. He said, 'Can't you do it?' so I said, 'I'm busy trying to invent a time machine.' Then he agreed. Here's your coffee."

"Thank you." He took a sip. "Ow, it's hot. And have you invented your time machine?"

"I'm on my way to see Stephen now. He's got all the spectral data on the discontinuities. We're working on the theory that if we duplicate very closely the conditions around a discontinuity, we may be able to set up a wormhole of our own. Then we need to make certain that it goes where and when we want it to, of course."

The Professor laughed. "Ah, so _that's_ why you want to find this Murgatroyd chap! You want to create your own discontinuity by bumping the poor bugger off!"

For the second time in half an hour, Helena wasn't sure if Hawthorne was joking. She said, rather nonplussed, "I didn't mean that. I meant that we could duplicate the electromagnetic diffraction effects that exist in the immediate vicinity of a discontinuity at the instant it is created. It might not work, but Stephen seems hopeful."

When she arrived at his office, he looked more than hopeful. "Helena! I want to show you something." Helena half hoped that he would take her to his laboratory and present her with a fully-functional, ready-to-use time machine. Instead he merely unfolded a long computer printout, read through it quickly to find the place he wanted, and pointed. "We've tried this experiment using two identical radioactive samples, one as a control and the other went through our little process. We bombarded this one with all frequencies of electromagnetic spectra, arranged like a diffraction pattern but in reverse. After five minutes, this one showed a significantly greater radioactive count than the other sample, which seems to indicate that it had travelled forward a few seconds in time!"

"Couldn't there be another explanation for this effect?" Dr. Smith made a point of being sceptical about a theory unless there was clear evidence to back it up.

"What we're trying to do now is obtain the reverse effect, that is, produce a sample with a reduced radioactive count. That would be the result if it had travelled backwards in time. If we succeed, I think we can safely say that we're on the right track." Phillips' moustache bristled proudly.

"How are you hoping to make it go backwards in time?"

"Simply by altering the diffraction pattern. Each of the natural discontinuities, if you can call them that, produced one of two slightly different fringe patterns. One of these was the pattern we copied to produce the future effect; hopefully the other will give the opposite."

"And if it works, is it simply a matter of turning up the power to create a tunnel a person could use?"

"We can but try," Phillips replied cheerfully. "Hopefully we'll have the results of the second experiment before the end of today. If you'd like to conduct it with me, I'd be more than grateful for your help. Two heads are better than one and all that."

"Yes, of course. I've got a few things to sort out before lunch, would after lunch be OK?"

"Oh, certainly, no problem. It'll give me time to get to the post office. Well, come on, don't keep me in suspense any longer. What was it?"

"What was what?"

"You told me on the phone that you'd found out the cause of the discontinuities at Whatsitplace in Cornwall, but you said you couldn't explain it over the phone." Phillips looked at Helena eagerly, like a character from an Agatha Christie novel, waiting for Hercule Poirot to reveal the murderer's identity.

"OK, here goes," she said. "You'll never believe what we found out, though. I can hardly believe it myself." She paused for a moment, took a deep breath and continued, "Apparently, all the dates you indicated on the star chart exactly match the dates of death of the Baronets of Ruddigore, who lived in the castle you pinpointed as the source of the discontinuities. Whenever and wherever one of these fellows died, a discontinuity was created. All twenty-nine of them."

"Gosh," said Phillips.

"This family of baronets, the Murgatroyds, were put under a curse by a witch in the year 1608. If they failed to commit a crime every day of their lives they would die in horrible agony."

"Wow," said Phillips.

"When each one dies, the space-time continuum appears to split into two alternative realities, due to the paradoxical nature of the curse."

"Crikey," said Phillips.

"Robert is trying to trace the current Baronet, Number Thirty, before Fate catches up with him. Then Professor Hawthorne and I are planning to take him back to 1608 and prevent this curse from being made, so eliminating all the rifts in the space-time continuum altogether. That's why we want a tunnel a person can go through." She picked up her briefcase and turned towards the door. "I'm going to call on Robert now to see if he's found anything on John Murgatroyd. I'll be back a bit after one o'clock to help with the experiments. Oh, by the way, how's your aunt?"

"We're hoping she's on the mend," he replied, looking at the floor. "She's had a course of radiotherapy, all we can do now is keep our fingers crossed."

"Oh, I didn't realise it was as serious as that. I hope she gets better soon," Helena said with genuine feeling.

"Thanks, Helena. See you later." Phillips began folding up the computer printout again as she left the office.

When Helena arrived at Robert's office in the Music Department, he was having a rather laboured conversation with someone on the phone. "Yes... Murgatroyd... M for Mother... John Paul George Ringo, father's name Charles... Born May, 1964... Yes... No, I'm afraid I don't have a current address, all I know is he was born in New York and his parents lived at 275 Elmwood Drive, Newark, New Jersey until his father died in 1965... No, I explained, I'm a senior lecturer at the University of North Yorkshire in England... England, Great Britain, yes... and we're conducting an experiment - I mean, a _study_ for which we need Mr. Murgatroyd's help... What, none at all? Not even... Well yes, I appreciate that... Well, thank you for your trouble. Goodbye. Oh, hi, Helena, I didn't see you come in."

"Making progress?"

He shook his head. "That was the New York Police I was speaking to just then. The sergeant there was very polite, but he said that they simply couldn't trace him with so little to go on. Apparently John and his mother simply disappeared after Charles' death. There was no forwarding address or anything. Quite a mystery."

"Charles was a politician," said Helena. "I wonder if the CIA or the FBI or people like that were mixed up with his death? Then John's mother might have had to disappear for her safety - and John's."

"Who can tell?" Robert answered. "Anyway, I think you'd be wasting your time trying to track him down now. It'd take so long, and we want to go back and sort it out as soon as we can. At least, that's what I understood. The Universe being unstable, I mean. By the way, how is the time machine coming on?"

"Stephen's experiments so far have gone very well, we'll be conducting some more this afternoon together. And no childish innuendos, please, Mr. Anderson," she added, catching the evil glint in his eye. "We may have something we can use before too long. Are you sure there's no way we can find John Murgatroyd?"

Robert looked directly at her and lowered his voice. "To be perfectly honest, Helena, if people like the FBI really were involved in his father's death, then it might be very dangerous prodding about trying to find him. Not just for him, but for us. It scares me, really. I mean, is it really that important that we find him? I think we've got as much chance of changing Sir Rupert's mind by ourselves, and anyway, you said yourself that the less people who know about what we're doing, the better."

Helena opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. At last she shrugged and said, "OK. But there is one thing."

"What's that?"

"I think it would be nice if we told the old boy at the castle, you know, the curator, what's his name, Goodheart, if we let him know what we've found out about the history of the Murgatroyds after Sir Ruthven. He did an awful lot for us, it'd mean so much to him, especially the fact that there is a living heir to the Ruddigore title somewhere."

"Yeah, I suppose so," Robert replied.

"Good grief," exclaimed Helena, "it's a quarter to twelve. I'd better get back to Physics and fill the Professor in before he goes off to lunch."

"Come here and give us a kiss first."

They didn't hear the knock. They didn't see the door open. "Helena? I was told I might find you in here..." Professor Hawthorne caught the couple in mid snog. "Whoops! Sorry," he mumbled and beat a hasty retreat.

"I'll call in at five o'clock, Robert. Bye for now."

"Bye."

Helena found Hawthorne waiting for her in the corridor. She tried to look casual. "Was, er, was there anything you wanted me for, Professor?"

"Just wondering how things were getting on, that's all. I mean, I'm only the Head of Department, but it's nice to keep in touch with things, once in a while."

"Well," she began as they made their way back to the Physics block. "Stephen's initial experiments in duplicating the diffraction patterns around a discontinuity have produced quite promising results so far. I'm going over there to help him after lunch. We should have some results by the end of the afternoon. Robert, unfortunately, hasn't been able to trace John Murgatroyd - he and his mother disappeared in mysterious circumstances when his father died. We don't know, but it could be like JFK - you know, an FBI cover-up or something." The Professor frowned. "That's all the developments so far."

"All right," Hawthorne replied, rubbing his eyes. "Fancy lunch in Sangazure College today?"

At ten to four Helena dialled Professor Hawthorne's number. "Hello, Professor? It's Helena... The second experiment worked, yes... Back in time at least twelve seconds... What's that?... Yes, we could have our tunnel very soon... I'll come straight over and show you the results... Oh, by the way, I forwarded the fax about the Murgatroyds to Mr. Goodheart at the castle, I thought he might appreciate it, I hope you don't mind... OK, see you in ten minutes... Black, two sugars, yes I know, goodbye."

George, the Physics Department porter, was in the middle of his one a.m. inspection when a light from a window in the Astronomy building caught his eye. It went out almost immediately. It was probably Dr. Phillips working late, he thought. He'd been staying very late a lot lately. But then he was sure he'd said goodbye to him earlier on this evening... Better have a look, just in case. He checked the lift; no-one was using it. He went up the stairs to Phillips' office. No-one in the corridor... There was a clatter as something fell to the floor inside the unlit office. George rushed inside and flashed his torch around. "Who's there?" he barked.

The room was empty. A fountain pen rolled across the floor and hit George's boot. Surely something as small as that couldn't make such a loud noise? He picked up the pen and placed it on Dr. Phillips' desk. Then he carefully checked around the room to make sure no-one was hiding anywhere. Nothing. Funny, George thought as he left the office. It had been a sound like a heavy, solid, metal object hitting the ground. Something big. Almost like a suit of armour...

"I've drawn up a plan for when our experiments are completed," Dr. Smith said to Professor Hawthorne the next morning as he was sipping his too-hot cup of coffee. "If we carry on the way we're doing at the moment, we should have something we can use within a fortnight."

Hawthorne was impressed. He nodded. "So what's the plan?"

"The first thing is to check that we really can direct the wormhole to go exactly where and when we want it to. So I thought we could direct it to Ruddigore Castle, one day into the past. It should be easy to verify the exact time of our arrival. That should help us in our calculations when we want to go there in 1608. If anything did go wrong and we couldn't get back from one day in the past, we could still get home by conventional means and it would be as if we had never been anywhere, as far as anyone else is concerned."

"Assuming that experiment works, what then?"

"Then we go back to Sir Rupert's time."

"And?"

"Er... that's the bit I haven't worked out yet." The Professor raised a frowning eyebrow. "I had thought of us going further back to when he was a child and trying to influence him when he was more, you know, impressionable."

Hawthorne leaned forward in his chair. "No, I don't like that idea," he said. "For one thing, we know very little about his life before the curse took place. We don't even know exactly what periods he lived at Ruddigore Castle, before he became _Sir_ Rupert. And the further back we go, the more likely it becomes that we could send Time skewing off in an entirely different direction. No, we'll have to arrive fairly soon before the curse is pronounced - I'd say a week at the outside." He took another sip of coffee; it was now cool enough to drink without burning the roof of his mouth. "How much real time - I mean, in the present, will pass while we're away?"

"It's difficult to say," Helena replied. "It can't be instantaneous, that is, we can't arrive back at the same moment we left, because there has to be a one-to-one mapping of each point in space-time at this end of the tunnel to each point at the other. But because we're tracing a curved path through space, following the orbit of the Earth over the past four hundred years, it follows that our path through time is also going to be curved to compensate. So it could be less time than we spend in the past or it could be more, we'll have to wait for the results of Stephen's calculations."

The Professor frowned again. He said, "That could be awkward. If we're away any length of time, we'll have to explain our absence to the Powers That Be here. Remember, in three weeks we'll be up to our necks in meetings to plan the teaching syllabus for the new academic year. And two weeks after that the new term actually starts. And then - "

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" Hawthorne roared.

It was Dr. Phillips. "Oh, hello Stephen, just the man," said Hawthorne. "Helena and I were just discussing our little journey. Presumably you'll be keeping an eye on things at this end?"

Phillips was struggling to get his breath back. Helena spoke for him. "Yes, we'll need to keep the tunnel open continuously while we're away. There'll be no way of communicating - "

Phillips cut in. "I've just been having a word with George, the night porter. He says that someone broke into my office last night."

The other two froze. "Nothing appears to have been taken," he went on, "though someone's been using the computer. I've checked all my disks and there's nothing missing, and the virus checker didn't find anything, but I'm sure someone's discovered my password or cracked the encryption program. I've changed both of them now, of course."

"What makes you say that?" asked Helena.

"I checked the monitor to see who was logged in when," he answered. "After I left last night, one login was recorded, at one-fifteen this morning. According to the monitor, it was me." He looked at Helena, then at the Professor. "Only one file appears to have been edited, one of the calculation files for our time-travel project, though I can't find anything wrong with it. But it looks as if someone knows about what we're doing."

"George must have scared whoever it was off before they had chance to do anything," said Helena.

"I hope so." Phillips fingered his moustache nervously. "Anyway, I'm making sure that from now on, there's someone watching my office and laboratory twenty-four hours a day, and I'm taking my disks home with me every night. Who knows about the project, apart from ourselves?"

"Only Robert, and he wouldn't say anything to anyone," Helena declared. She felt a little angry that anyone could insinuate that her future husband could be capable of such criminal carelessness.

"What about this Baronet Murgatroyd chap?"

"We couldn't trace him," said the Professor, rubbing his eyes. "He seemed to disappear off the face of the Earth about thirty years ago."

"Anyway, anyone like that wouldn't have a clue how to get into the system, never mind which files to edit," Helena added. "For that matter, Robert wouldn't either."

"So it's one of us three, then," Professor Hawthorne said. "Will the real saboteur please stand up?"

36


	5. Chapter 5

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Five

"Stephen! For goodness' sake! Everything's alright!" Helena almost screamed at the nail-bitten, ashen-faced figure in the white coat who was operating the computer console which formed the heart of the experimental time tunnel. "We've checked everything over and over again. Whoever tampered with the data file hasn't done any damage, and nothing's happened since then."

"I'm sorry, Helena," Phillips replied. "I - I just haven't been able to relax, that's all. I mean, the thought that someone might be trying to sabotage what we're doing."

"But who? We've already decided that the only possible people are you, me and the Professor, and it's obvious none of us did it. Anyway, no harm's been done." Dr. Smith's voice took on a harder, more businesslike edge as it always did when she was conducting advanced research. "Is the field up to strength?"

"Just a few more seconds..." Dr. Phillips peered at the computer screen, counting off figures. "OK, that should do it."

"Here goes, then!" Helena opened a little cage on a shelf by the laboratory window and produced a dark-eyed, twitchy-nosed white rabbit. "Come to Mummy, Mervyn," she said.

"Mervyn?" echoed Phillips. "What made you call him Mervyn?"

"Oh, he reminds me of someone," Helena replied absent-mindedly. She placed the rabbit on the table in the middle of the room. All around its edge, and above it, were arrays of silver tubes, all focussed on the exact centre of the table. The rabbit scurried across the surface. All of a sudden it disappeared.

"Departure time, 11.03 and fourteen seconds," said Phillips, watching the screen. "So he should re-appear in one hour from now. Fancy getting us a coffee?"

"OK. While I'm at it, I'll bring the Professor up to see the outcome." She took off her white coat, hung it up on the hook on the door, and went out.

She returned twenty minutes later with a tray with three steaming cups of coffee. Professor Hawthorne held the door open for her. She put the tray down on a bench by the door and handed Stephen and the Professor their coffees. She said to the Professor, "We've set the other end of the wormhole to come out on the desk by the window, to see if we can successfully calculate all four dimensional parameters at once. If we can't, we'll have to take all this stuff down to the castle with us and set it up in the Murgatroyds' garden. It'll be about another forty minutes before our little friend re-appears."

"Why so long? I would have thought ten minutes would have been enough."

"Ah, well, we had a lot of problems keeping the diffraction pattern perfectly focussed over a sustained period," Phillips answered him, fingering his moustache. "I think we've cracked it now, but we needed to check by keeping it going for an hour."

The following forty minutes seemed more like hours. Even the Professor couldn't make his cup of coffee last the whole time. All three kept glancing at the spot where the rabbit was due to appear. At long last, Phillips announced, "It's 12.03, so Mervyn should be making his appearance about... now."

Hawthorne, his face like gravy, shot a glance at Helena. He opened his mouth to say something. Then he drew in his breath sharply. A white rabbit had suddenly appeared in front of them. There was no noise, no gradual fading into view. "Yes!" shouted Phillips. "Only 0.04 milliseconds and 0.012 millimetres off our predicted destination point. Now we've just one more test to try..."

He was interrupted by another intake of breath from the Professor. Another rabbit, identical to the first had appeared on the desk beside it.

"Well, that confirms it," said Phillips with a smile. "I was going to say, the final test was to send the rabbit back in time one hour. It will take me nearly an hour to set the field up, so when I'm ready I shall put the earlier rabbit, that's the one on the left, into the wormhole, producing the result you've just seen. Feels ever so weird seeing the result of an experiment before you've done it."

"I wonder what would happen if you didn't complete the experiment?" Hawthorne said half to himself.

"I think we should make sure we know what we're doing before we start trying to investigate the nature of time paradoxes, Professor," Helena replied.

As Phillips turned his back to type something on the computer console, the Professor mouthed to Helena, "What do you mean by calling it Mervyn?"

"Don't worry," she mouthed back. "Stephen doesn't know."

"How long before we can make our first journey, to Ruddigore Castle one day in the past?" Hawthorne said aloud to Phillips.

"If Helena and I can calculate all the parameters for the diffraction pattern to give the correct time displacement backwards down the path traced by Ruddigore Castle within space-time by the end of this afternoon," he paused for breath, "we should be ready to give it a try tomorrow morning."

"OK," said Helena, "if we aim to set off at eleven a.m., arriving there at eleven a.m. one day ago, which is today." She smiled suddenly. "I've just had a thought. That means we should be there at this minute. I wonder if we could phone up Peter Goodheart and see if we're there? Then we'd know it had worked before we even start."

The Professor frowned at her. "I think you'd better help Stephen set up the time field for sending the rabbit back one hour, or else there may not be any space-time by this time tomorrow."

At ten-thirty the next morning Robert knocked on the door of Stephen Phillips' laboratory. Helena opened it a crack to see who it was before admitting him. She shut it firmly behind him.

Dr. Phillips and Professor Hawthorne were both seated at the computer console. The Professor was calling out figures as Phillips was checking them on the screen. The table in the middle of the room had been removed; now the silver tubes were focussed on a spot in the middle of the floor. Robert stepped forward and peered at them curiously. Helena caught his arm before he could step inside the circle. "Be careful, Robert, we're not sure yet what might happen before the field is up to full strength," she said. "Fancy a coffee before we go?"

"Er, no thanks, I had one in Fitzbattleaxe College on the way here," he replied. "When do we start?"

"We got the program running at nine minutes past ten, so we should be ready in about thirty-five minutes' time. Now, we've set the wormhole to come out near the little summer-house in the grounds of the castle, at exactly eleven o'clock yesterday. That should be far enough away from any visitors. Then we'll have a ten-minute walk to the castle itself. We'll time how long it takes us to get there, and then check the date and time on the clock in the Entrance Hall. That should give us the time of our arrival. Then we walk back to the tunnel and return here. And then we need to compare how long the journey took from our point of view with how long passed here while we were away. Because it's such a short trip, it should be almost the same, to within about 300 milliseconds or so."

Robert looked at Helena anxiously and said, "Helena, I was thinking. I understood that these wormholes or whatever were making the fabric of space-time unstable. If you're making one of your own, aren't you making it worse?"

"No, because we can control ours. By monitoring the frequencies, the intensities and the phase of the radiation those transmitters are sending out, we can control the exact size and shape of the wormhole, and hopefully, where the other end appears in time and space. The instabilities are caused by discontinuities far out in space. I mean, if we could set up equipment like this around each one, we could stop them from getting any bigger, but it would take about forty years for a spaceship to reach even the nearest one."

Robert shrugged and sat down in a comfy chair near the door of the laboratory. On the bench beside it was a local weekly newspaper which the Professor had discarded. He thumbed through it until he found the classified advertisements, then searched for the Musical Instruments column as he always did. You never knew when something might turn up... One advert caught his eye. "Reproduction 16th Century lute, excellent condition, £200 o.n.o." He read it again, checked to see if there was anything important on the other side of the paper, then tore out the corner of the page on which the ad was printed. He stuffed the scrap of paper in the inside pocket of his jacket. He hoped that someone wouldn't get in ahead of him and buy it while he was making his trip through time. Then a delicious thought struck him. He could phone the number from Ruddigore Castle while he was visiting yesterday and arrange to see it before anyone else had even seen the advert. That way he could make sure that it would still be for sale when he got back.

Dr. Phillips said, "The field will be up to strength in about three minutes' time. If you each take one of these control watches, which are set in sync with these three which will remain here, that way we'll have six readings to check against each other. That should make sure we get a totally accurate measurement." He handed Helena, the Professor and Robert a small pocket-type stopwatch each. "All being well you should be back here within half an hour. Are you ready?"

"We're ready," replied Helena.

"Are you sure this is safe?" asked Robert.

"No," said the Professor, "but every experiment so far has been successful and I've every confidence in your fiancée." He smiled roguishly at Helena, who smirked back.

"The field is up to strength," said Phillips. "Bon voyage, everyone!"

The Professor, Robert and Helena stepped into the circle of radiation transmitters.

Then they were somewhere, somewhen else.

The laboratory had disappeared. They were standing on grass in the open air. The sudden bright sunlight made them blink. A fox, startled by their appearance out of nowhere, turned tail and scurried off in the opposite direction.

"That's a thought," said Helena. "What if an animal or something stumbles through the tunnel by accident? We ought to have someone guarding this end."

Robert looked up nervously. He desperately wanted to get to a phone, to ring up about the lute. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck guarding the tunnel. Fortunately for him the Professor shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "It would probably draw attention to us if one of us were spotted loitering at the edge of the grounds, apparently doing nothing. And anyway, we won't be able to have anyone guarding it when we're back in 1608. Besides, I don't think the problem will arise." He pointed.

A hare had bounded out of the high hedge and run right up to the point where the three academics had appeared. All of a sudden it stopped, shook violently as if it had had an electric shock and ran away again. "It looks as if animals can detect the wormhole, the way they can tell when there's going to be a thunderstorm," Robert remarked.

"OK, let's get to the castle," said Helena. They started walking up the gravel path.

They arrived in the entrance hall just as Peter Goodheart was coming through the arch at the other end. He was talking to a young man, about thirty, dressed in a smart grey two-piece suit that any hack on the floor of the Stock Exchange would have killed for. He looked somehow familiar. When Goodheart saw the three academics he broke off in mid-sentence, then turned to the man and said, "These are the three people from the University of North Yorkshire that I was telling you about. Sir John, this is Professor Mervyn Hawthorne, Dr. Helena Smith and Mr. Robert Anderson. Professor, Dr. Smith, Mr. Anderson, this is Sir John Murgatroyd, the thirtieth Baronet of Ruddigore."

There was a pause, in which the academics' minds raced as they took in the situation. Murgatroyd was holding out his hand to the Professor to shake. He grasped it gingerly. Murgatroyd's grip was strong and confident. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Hawthorne." The voice matched the handshake; Murgatroyd's accent was clear, educated and very definitely English. "Can I say how grateful I am to you for finding out about my ancestry and my title?"

"Oh, er, the pleasure is all ours," Hawthorne mumbled. Helena and Robert continued to stare. Goodheart stepped in to their rescue.

"It was your fax that enabled me to trace Sir John, Dr. Smith," he said. "Once I knew when and where he had been born, I was able to begin my search. The mysterious circumstances surrounding his father's death gave me a hunch that his mother would have taken him out of the United States. The fact that she was an aficionado of the Beatles pop group," his voice had a wonderfully quaint tone, as if "pop groups" were still a novelty, "made me think that she would take her young son to England. I reasoned that as the Murgatroyds were fairly wealthy, she, as a single parent, would place him in a boarding school as soon as he was of age. I checked the records of admissions of all the preparatory schools in the country for 1972, when he would have been eight. I found that there was a John Murgatroyd enrolled in a school near Manchester that year. Upon further investigation I discovered that he had been born in America at the time indicated on your fax, and that he had come to England the following year. I therefore surmised that he was our man. The school informed me that when he left, he went to Cambridge to read Mathematics. His tutor there gave me his current address and phone number. I contacted him by letter and invited him here. When he arrived this morning, straight away I saw the family likeness. Then I knew I was looking at the present Baronet of Ruddigore." His final words were like a trumpet fanfare.

Helena pulled herself together and smiled warmly. She shook Sir John's hand and said, "We're very pleased to meet you, Sir John. We'd been studying the history of the Castle and your family, and we'd hoped we could trace the current Baronet to help us in our research." His eyes, she thought. They're just like those in the painting of Sir Roderic...

"I'd be delighted to help," answered Murgatroyd. "What is it you want to know?"

Helena looked nervously at Professor Hawthorne. She very much wanted to tell this Sir John all about their work and persuade him to come back to Sir Rupert's time with them. She also knew that Robert was dead set against the idea. She felt, therefore, that the Professor should have the casting vote. But anyway, she couldn't tell him all about it while Goodheart was there. On the other hand, Goodheart believed that their research was to do with the history of the castle and the Murgatroyd family, and if she deferred the issue he might become suspicious. Then Professor Hawthorne spoke.

"Sir John, did Mr. Goodheart tell you about the curse?"

"What, this nonsense about committing a crime every day or dying in horrible agony? I thought it was very funny. Certainly it's good for the tourists, wouldn't you say, Mr. Goodheart?" Goodheart smiled weakly and said nothing.

The Professor continued, "Well, our research is to do with investigating... what you might call 'paranormal' events, from a purely scientific and mathematical standpoint. However, we don't like using the word 'paranormal' because, you know, people associate it with those New Age hippy types." He smiled; Murgatroyd smiled with him. "What we're trying to do is to see if there is any link between so-called supernatural occurrences and measurable changes in physical phenomena, such as diffraction of light, changes in gravitational or magnetic fields and so on. Now, we've made some astronomical observations which appear to coincide with the dates of death of your ancestors."

Goodheart's eyes widened, though he said nothing. Murgatroyd smiled again and said, "So what do you want me to do?" His voice still had an amused tone; these academics may be genuine, he thought, but that doesn't stop them being nutters. He had a sudden mental picture of his tutor in Cambridge. Come to think of it, being a nutter was probably a prerequisite for a professor.

"It'd take too long to explain it all now, Sir John," said Helena with her warm smile. "But basically we'd like you to look at our findings and help us with interpreting the results. I mean, whatever you could tell us about what happened to your father and your grandfather and so on, it would help us to decide if we're on the right track. Could you give us your address and phone number so we can arrange something?"

Murgatroyd produced an elegant little printed card with his name, address, phone and personal fax number on it. He handed it to Helena, returning her smile.

"Well, we really must be getting back," Helena declared. She took her stopwatch out of her bag. "Does anyone have the right time?"

Sir John Murgatroyd pulled back his sleeve to reveal a beautiful gold Rolex watch. "Eleven twenty-three exactly," he said. "Hasn't lost a second since I bought it."

Helena checked the time on her stopwatch. "Eleven twenty-three, corresponds to Start of Stopwatch plus twenty-eight minutes, four seconds," she said under her breath. She scribbled the figures down in a little notebook. Murgatroyd and Goodheart looked at her curiously. She looked up and said aloud, "We have to keep an accurate record of the time we spend doing research off campus, for the accountants. That's for Wednesday the eighteenth..."

"No, today's Tuesday," put in Goodheart. "Tuesday the seventeenth."

"Sorry," replied Helena, "I keep thinking it's Wednesday." She put the notebook back in her bag.

Robert made a bee-line for the payphone next to the admission kiosk. "Excuse me a minute, I just want to make a phone call." He shut the door of the phone box behind him and retrieved the advert from his pocket.

"What's he up to?" the Professor whispered to Helena.

She shrugged. "Search me."

Robert spoke for about a minute, fumbled in his pockets, found another scrap of paper and a pencil, wrote something down, hung up the phone and came out, looking a little guilty.

"What was all that about?" asked the Professor.

"Oh, nothing important. Just a little Music business, that's all."

"Well, we really must be going now, Mr. Goodheart," said Helena. "Very nice to have met you, Sir John, we'll be in touch in a couple of days if that's alright." The three academics walked to the main door and opened it.

"Just a moment, Dr. Smith," Goodheart called out. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

But they had gone.

"That was odd," Goodheart remarked to Murgatroyd. "They obviously must have come to talk to me about something and then they went away without saying anything."

"Very odd," agreed Murgatroyd. He gazed at the academics' retreating backs, then as he turned he noticed something on the floor of the phone box. He picked it up. It was a piece of newspaper, torn out of a page of classified adverts. "This must have been what that chap was ringing up about," he said without much interest. Then he noticed the name of the paper: the North Yorkshire Times. Then he noticed the date. Wednesday, September 18th. Tomorrow! "Look at this!" he exclaimed. "How could he have got hold of tomorrow's edition of a Yorkshire local paper?"

"Now there's a mystery," said Goodheart, peering at the scrap of paper.

"Too right," Murgatroyd replied. "And I mean to find out a bit more about those three..." He walked briskly out of the main entrance and followed the academics down the path that led to the summer-house.

"What _were_ you doing in there?" Hawthorne asked Robert again.

"It was nothing, really," Robert answered, sweating a little. "Look, all it was, was an advert for a lute in the local paper. I thought that if I waited till we got back it might have been sold, so I thought that if I phoned up a day early I might get the person selling it to hang on to it until I got chance to see it, later today - I mean, tomorrow. Look, here's the advert - oh, I must have lost it."

"Robert!" The Professor was annoyed, though he spoke quietly. "Don't you understand that anything unusual that might draw attention to ourselves could jeopardise the whole project?"

"Well, never mind," said Helena. "I don't think any harm will have been done. Are we ready for the journey back?"

"Yes," the two men chorussed.

"Then let's get back to the lab, and then we can check the time calculations." They walked back to the spot where they had first appeared.

Murgatroyd peered round from behind the summer-house. He had kept a discreet distance; he was sure they hadn't spotted him following them. Anyway, they seemed too wrapped up in their own conversation to notice anything else, though he hadn't been able to hear what they had been saying. Then he swore in surprise. All three had just disappeared, instantly. He ran out and up to the place where the three academics had been.

Professor Hawthorne, Helena and Robert found themselves back in Stephen Phillips' laboratory. "Hello again!" Phillips said cheerily. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, fine," Helena replied as they stepped out of the time field. "How about at this end?"

"No problems at all," said Phillips. "You were gone for thirty-two minutes, thirteen point three seconds by my reckoning. Did you get a time check OK?"

"Yes, I've got it written down here," she answered, fishing in her bag for the notebook. "It was - "

She stopped and gave a cry. Sir John Murgatroyd had appeared in the laboratory. The shock of the sudden change in surroundings was more upsetting to him than to the scientists. He screamed.

Dr. Phillips was the first to act. He dashed to the computer console and typed in a few commands. The radiation transmitters dimmed and stopped humming.

"Sir John! What are you doing here?" Helena demanded. It was more of an accusation than a request for information.

"You tell me!" he yelled back. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

The Professor stepped forward. "Well, it looks like our latest Lord of Ruddigore is going to be involved whether we like it or not," he said. "We couldn't tell you before, Sir John, because you wouldn't have believed us, but you've just become one of the first people ever to travel through time."

Murgatroyd looked at him like a dog who has just been smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. He started to laugh, then he remembered the newspaper advert in his pocket. He took it out and stared at it again. He swallowed hard.

"We're sorry it's such a shock, Sir John," said Helena gently. She sat him down in one of the comfy chairs near the door. She hesitated. "Er... would you like a cup of coffee?"

He nodded. "Where am I? What year is this?" His voice sounded choked, his eyes filled with tears.

"You've only come forward one day. This was our first proper test of our... our time machine, so we only set it to go back one day. We wanted to make sure we'd got all our calculations right before we make our big journey."

"Helena!" Robert cut in sharply.

"Robert, he's _here_ , he's witnessed the time experiment, we might as well get him to help us."

The Professor said, "I think we owe him an explanation first. Then all we can do is to _ask_ him to help us."

Phillips left the laboratory and returned a few seconds later. He handed Murgatroyd a tray with a cup of black coffee, a little jug of cream and a bowl of sugar on it. "I pinched it from the Conference Room," he hissed in Helena's ear. "There's some do on in there for some bigwigs from Japan. I just hope Professor Seymour doesn't find out it was me."

Helena sat down beside Murgatroyd. "Professor Hawthorne, Dr. Phillips and I are astronomers," she began. "Robert is my fiancé, he's in the Music Department. We'd observed... odd things at certain points in space."

"What sort of things?"

"Well, I don't want to bore you with scientific details, but they were like... holes in space."

"You mean, like discontinuities in the fabric of space-time?"

The four academics gaped in amazement. "I got an Upper Second in Mathematics from Cambridge, you know," he said with a grin.

"Oh. Yes, point discontinuities in space-time." Helena resumed the explanation. "We discovered that the points in space and time at which these discontinuities originated lay on the path the Earth had traced through space. More specifically, they all, except for the last eight, centred on Ruddigore Castle, and they all, without exception, matched the time and place of death of your ancestors, from the first Baronet, Sir Rupert, right up to your father in 1965."

"You mean when I die there'll be another discontinuity?"

"We don't think so. You see, it's all to do with the curse on your family. If they failed to commit a crime, it was effectively attempting suicide, which was a crime, making an insoluble paradox."

"Like Schrödinger's Cat?" said Murgatroyd. Robert was disliking him more every minute, the smart-alec know-all.

"That's right," the Professor replied. "Suicide and attempted suicide are no longer considered as crimes, so we don't think it'll affect you. But as in the Schrödinger's Cat experiment, every time one of your ancestors apparently died under the curse it split the space-time continuum into two streams, one in which he was dead and the other in which he wasn't. This created a discontinuity. As time went on, the hole got bigger - "

"Like a tear in a piece of cloth," put in Robert. An eight-word oar this time.

"Like a tear in a piece of cloth," Hawthorne repeated testily. "Unless we do something about it, these holes in space - twenty-nine altogether, one for each of your ancestors - will eventually cause the break-up of the space-time continuum altogether. What we want to do is to go back to Sir Rupert's time and prevent the curse from ever taking place, so that none of the discontinuities will ever have existed."

"And we hoped that you might come with us," added Helena.

"Why? What do you want me for?" He drained his coffee-cup, put it back on the tray and set the tray down on the floor by his feet.

"Of anyone living today you would be the most likely person to get through to Sir Rupert. You're his descendant, there must be some likeness of mind..."

Murgatroyd stood up, somewhat red in the face. "What!" he shouted. "Peter Goodheart told me that he was a bloodthirsty, bigoted religious maniac. Are you suggesting - "

Helena blushed and said quickly, "No, no, I didn't mean that. I just meant that there'd be similarities in your genetic make-up, and so you might be better able to understand how his mind works, that's all."

Murgatroyd glared at her for a second and then sat down again. He appeared deep in thought for a moment. Then he looked up and said, "Just one thing. How long would all this take? I'm a busy man, I've got a business to run."

"I wouldn't have thought more than two or three days at the most," replied Hawthorne.

Murgatroyd thought again. "OK," he said at last. "I'll come with you. Sounds like it could be a lot of fun, a bit of swashbuckling."

"That's great," said Helena, smiling. "When can we go, Stephen?"

Phillips said, "We'll have to check the times from the trip you've just made, though everything seemed to work OK. Though what with all this, I don't think the results are going to be quite as accurate as I would have liked. Still you made it back to about eleven o'clock yesterday as planned. I think any time from tomorrow onwards, whenever you're ready."

"Shall we make it the day after tomorrow?" Helena suggested. "That'll give us time to get costumes for us to wear. How's that with you, Sir John?"

"Friday? No, better make it Saturday, I've got work engagements on Friday. I can't just disappear."

"What do you do, if you don't mind me asking?" Professor Hawthorne asked him.

"Me? Oh, I'm the Sales Director of a record company. On Friday we launch the promotional drive for Asphyxia's new album, 'Kick Their Arts'." Both Robert and the Professor winced. Helena sniggered and tried to stifle it. Phillips didn't appear to be listening. "Yes I know, it's dreadful, isn't it?" continued Murgatroyd. "Give me Schubert any day. Still, heavy metal brings in the dosh." He stopped. "I've just realised," he said anxiously. "My car is still at the castle. It'll have been there all night. Did it rain last night? Because I didn't put the top back on."

Robert secretly wished that Murgatroyd's car would have become a waterlogged wreck. Dr. Phillips said, "Don't worry, Sir John, we'll send you back to just after you left, once we've completed our calculations."

"In the meantime," the Professor said jovially, "it would be an honour if you would join me for lunch in Grosvenor College, and I can fill you in with more of the details."

"Professor Hawthorne," replied Murgatroyd with a smile, "I would be delighted to accept." He and Hawthorne went out. As the door closed behind them, Robert tried to burn a wormhole in the back of Murgatroyd's head with his eyes.

On Saturday morning Robert arrived at Hawthorne's office at half past ten to try on his outfit. Even by seventeenth-century standards, it was pretty loud. Light brown leather boots that reached his knees, bright blue breeches with slashes of red showing through, a blue velvet doublet that fitted tightly around his waist, a matching short cloak fastened with a brooch that looked like a ruby, a frilly shirt with a ruff, a wide-brimmed hat with a feather, and, best of all, a _real_ sword, on a leather sword-belt. "This is a bit of alright!" he exclaimed, looking at himself up and down in a large mirror.

The Professor's own costume was roughly similar, though somewhat more subdued. His doublet was made of leather and he had a long, dark green cloak. "What have you got for Helena and our music-loving friend?" Robert asked him.

"For Helena, I've got a dress of the kind that ladies of the nobility wore in those days, together with a cloak for weather protection. Sir John's gear is much the same as yours. The theatrical costumiers in town assured me that this was the fashion amongst the young upper classes in those days."

"What did you say to them? I mean, what did you tell them you wanted the costumes for?"

"I told them the national press were coming to do a feature on the history of astronomy, and they wanted us dressed in period costume for the photographs. Now, when we're there, we're going to have to pretend to be members of John Murgatroyd's family. Helena will be his fiancée..."

"What!"

"It's the easiest thing to say that will sound convincing. Don't worry, Robert, we'll be back home before you can say 'Jack Robinson' and then she'll be your fiancée again. I shall be her father and you, her brother. I shall be... Lord Hawthorne, the eighth Earl of Malton. You, Robert, are my son and heir."

"What about Murgatroyd? He can't very well say he's the Lord of Ruddigore when Sir Rupert is."

"Mr. Goodheart told us that Sir Rupert's grandfather, who lived at the time of Henry VIII, had a younger brother who eloped with a girl who was the local blacksmith's daughter. If he is questioned, John will claim to be this man's grandson. No-one should be able to refute that. Anyway, stop admiring yourself and take all that clobber off, you can't go over to Stephen's lab dressed like that."

Robert stripped off and put his own clothes on again. He felt a lot less... imposing. He thought, Maybe I've some subconscious desire to be Errol Flynn. "Aren't you excited, Professor?" he said aloud.

Hawthorne bundled his seventeenth-century clothes into a sports holdall and picked up his sword. "Yes I am," he replied. "When I was a boy I dreamed of travelling around in space and time the way Sir Francis Drake travelled around the world. When I was evacuated, I wished I could travel forward to a time when the war was over. Now I'm actually going to visit the seventeenth century." He opened the door. "Onward, noblest Romans!" he cried as he stepped into the corridor.

"God, I hope we don't go back _that_ far," said Robert drily.

Helena was waiting for them when they reached Dr. Phillips' laboratory. She was wearing a beautiful flowing green velvet dress that reached her feet, and an embroidered sky-blue cloak. "This bloody corset is killing me," she said as soon as Hawthorne and Robert walked in.

Robert wasn't sure what to say in reply to this. "You look very nice," he said at last.

"Well I don't feel it," she grumbled. "Did women really wear these things in those days?"

"'Fraid so," the Professor answered.

Just then there was a knock on the door. "Come in!" roared the Professor.

Murgatroyd entered. He was wearing a waxed jacket and corduroy trousers, sturdy walking boots and a tweed cap, as if he were going for a morning's spot of shooting on his estate. "Good morning Professor," he said. "Are we - " Then he caught sight of Helena in her dress. "What's this? Fancy dress party?"

"You could say that," the Professor replied, handing him his costume. "You can get changed behind this screen."

"What for?"

"A fine one you'd look in the seventeenth century dressed like that," said Robert somewhat impatiently.

Murgatroyd opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. He shook his head. "Of course, I wasn't thinking," he said. "You may laugh, but I spent nearly half an hour this morning deciding what would be the best thing to wear for walking around the Ruddigore estate and it completely slipped my mind that we'd be doing so in the seventeenth century."

"Aren't you a dozy pillock," Robert muttered under his breath. He ducked behind the screen, changed into his Errol Flynn outfit and stepped back into view. "My darling sister!" he said, kissing Helena's hand. "I am thy Robin Hood."

Professor Hawthorne led Sir John by the arm behind the screen and began to change into his costume. As he did so, he explained to him what they were to say about who they were.

At last they were all dressed. The Professor just had time for two sips of coffee before Phillips informed them that the field was up to strength. Then, feeling considerably more nervous than they had felt just before their test journey three days earlier, the Professor, Helena, Robert and Sir John stepped into the time field. Sir John whispered to Helena, "Will this take - "

They were somewhere, somewhen else.

49


	6. Chapter 6

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Six

It was raining. It was windy. It was cold. And because they no longer had a building around them, the four time-travellers noted these facts very quickly.

Sir John Murgatroyd looked at Helena. "Are we there?" he said.

Professor Hawthorne pointed to a small building a few hundred yards away. "That must be the summer-house. Let's get under cover!"

They ran to the little shelter. Or rather, the three men ran and Helena stumbled. "I hate this bloody dress!" she screamed.

As soon as they were in the dry, the Professor opened a little leather pouch on his belt and produced a pencil and some paper. "It's important that we make a note of exactly where the entrance to the time tunnel is," he said. "In case we need to make, er, a hasty exit."

"What do you mean?" asked Sir John, worriedly. "I thought all we were going to do was knock on the door, say a few words to Great-great-grandpa Rupert, telling him not to sentence any witches for the next few days and then come home. Why would we need to make a quick exit?"

"You never can tell," Hawthorne replied. "Have you thought of a plan, Helena?"

"Oh yes, the plan." Helena suddenly became extraordinarily interested in the mosaic on the floor.

"Helena!"

"I've an idea," said Robert. "Helena is supposed to be Sir John's fiancée. We could say that we are on our way to - to - wherever you're the Earl of, Professor - for the wedding, and we would very much like Sir Rupert, as Sir John's closest living relative, to accompany us."

"He could be my best man!" Sir John remarked, grinning evilly at Helena. Robert glared at him.

"Hmm, that's all very well," said Hawthorne. "But what would be the point of that?"

"The point is that we get him away from here for a few days," Robert answered. "Then he wouldn't ever meet this witch girl."

"You mean, travel up to Yorkshire with him? We couldn't do that. Travel in this day and age is a difficult, not to say dangerous, thing to attempt. And sooner or later, he'd see through our deception: the fact that I'm not an earl and I don't own Malton Hall, or indeed anywhere for the next three-and-a-half centuries. How would we return him back here without him finding us out?"

Helena said, "Does it matter if he does find us out? I mean, he wouldn't believe we're from the future even if we told him outright. All that would happen would be that he would unmask us as imposters and return home in a huff. Then we return here and go home through the tunnel."

"Yes," put in Sir John, "and if he catches us on his land then he'll have us shot. No thanks."

Robert had another idea. "We could lead him so far then abandon him and get back here before him."

Hawthorne was unconvinced. "How would we be sure of doing that? Sir Rupert was - I mean, is - a first-class horseman. We found that out from Mr. Goodheart. He never spent a day when he wasn't in the saddle."

Robert interrupted him. "What, never?"

"Well, hardly ever," he conceded. "Anyway, what I was going to say was, can any of you ride?" The other three shook their heads. "That's what I thought," he went on. "I can ride a bit, at least I could fifty years ago when I was an evacuee, though I doubt I'd be able to manage it now. And I was never particularly good at it in the first place. So how could we get back here in a hurry?"

Sir John said, "And another thing. If we were going on a long journey, Sir Rupert would expect us to ride. If we turn up on foot, he's bound to be suspicious."

Robert sagged, then brightened. "Why don't we take him with us through the time tunnel?"

"What! Are you mad? Have him wandering around in the future?" the Professor began, but Robert continued.

"No, there's no need for that. We take him with us, then we re-adjust the destination time for three days later and take him back. All he'd see of our time would be the inside of Stephen's laboratory. I don't think he'd be able to learn anything that would upset history from that."

"And you could knock him out before you start so he never knows about it in the first place," Sir John added with enthusiasm. "He'd wake up, find it's three days later and assume he'd had a few too many three nights before."

"Unfortunately, Sir Rupert was strictly teetotal," said Helena.

Hawthorne declared, "We're not bloody kidnappers. And I don't like the idea of bringing Sir Rupert to our time. Remember, no-one's ever attempted time-travel before and we don't know what might go wrong. For instance, the shock could kill him, wiping out all the Murgatroyd family before it's even got started." Sir John turned white, opened his mouth to say something, remembered present company and shut it again.

"Can you think of anything else, then, Professor?" Robert asked.

Professor Hawthorne stood silent for a moment. Then he said, "I think it would be much safer if we could reason with him and persuade him not to pass sentence on anyone for the next few days."

"But why should he listen to us? He might think we were this witch's friends or something, that we were on the side of those in league with the Devil." Robert sat down on the cold stone floor.

Helena said, "Look, these are the possibilities." The three men looked at her as if they were first-year students and she were giving a lecture. "We can either forewarn Sir Rupert, telling him as little or as much of the truth as we feel is necessary. Or we can prevent the witch's execution from taking place, by removing either Sir Rupert or this witch girl from the scene. We can't do anything about her because we don't know who she was - I mean, is - or rather, will be. So either we think of something to tell him that will persuade him to lie low for a few days, or we send him on a wild goose chase across the country, or we take him with us to our time and send him back a few days later."

"If we remove him from the scene, won't that just postpone him burning the witch rather than prevent it?" said Sir John.

"You're right," replied the Professor. "We need to convince him once and for all."

Robert stood up again and leaned over Hawthorne's shoulder. "What else have you got in that pouch, Professor?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing much. Just my reading glasses and my bottle of pills in case I have a migraine attack." Robert frowned. "Yes, I know they're anachronisms," Hawthorne went on, "but I'm not going to show them to anyone here and if I don't bring them I'll need them."

Helena peered outside. "The rain's stopped," she announced.

"Right, we'd better make our way towards the house. I think I've worked out what to say. When the witch girl is sentenced, I, in my status as a nobleman and friend of the King, will plead clemency for her."

"Will that work?" asked Robert, meaning "That won't work, you silly old fool," though he didn't like to say so.

The Professor gazed in the direction of the house and answered, "If I phrase it correctly it should. I'll remind him that Christianity's all about forgiveness, Judge Not Lest Thou Shalt Thyself Be Judged, The Foulest Sinner Can Yet Be Saved and all that. He lives and breathes religion, he'll listen."

They stepped out into the sunshine. There was a muddy excuse for a path leading to the house. Helena cursed her dress again.

"What are we going to say to Sir Rupert when we get there?" Sir John asked Hawthorne.

"We'll tell him who we are, that is, who we're supposed to be, and say that we were coming to visit him, but as we approached his estate we were set upon by a gang of highwaymen. They spared our lives, but they took our carriage, our horses, our belongings and our money. And although I hate to deprive you of your title so soon after you've taken it up, remember you're just plain John Murgatroyd."

"No he isn't," Robert said with a smirk, "he's John Paul George Ringo Murgatroyd." Sir John turned to face him and drew in his breath to give him a sharp reply.

"Look," Helena interrupted, pointing to their right.

A horse-drawn carriage had passed through the main gates and was moving slowly along the main driveway towards the house. Curiously slowly... As the time-travellers drew nearer, they could see it was a hearse. It appeared to be empty.

They reached the house. Everything appeared to be as it had been on the academics' first visit to the Ruddigore estate in their own time, apart from the absence of the car park sign, and the ruined towers were no longer ruins. "I thought the towers weren't added until the beginning of the nineteenth century. At least, that's what it said in the guide book," Helena said to Robert.

"Look out, we've been spotted," said Hawthorne.

A pale, thin man aged about twenty-five, dressed in black was coming towards them. He was quite tall, his large top hat giving him an almost giant-like appearance. He wore a long, thick moustache. Across the front of his waistcoat was arrayed a magnificent golden watch-chain. Surely they didn't have pocket watches in 1608? His eyes looked so familiar... Helena remembered the face in the painting that had caught her eye, the Dragoon Guard officer. With a shock she realised that this man was almost exactly like him. For that matter, she could see some resemblance to Sir John too. He was clearly very angry. Nevertheless he spoke politely. "May I ask who you are?"

"Oh er," Sir John was caught entirely off guard. "My name's Murgatroyd, Sir - I mean, John Murgatroyd," he began. "Er..."

"I am Lord Hawthorne, the Earl of Malton," the Professor declared. "This is my son, Robert and my daughter, Helena. John is engaged to be married to my daughter." He wasn't quite sure what courtesies earls performed on meeting strangers, especially in the past. He thought of bowing, changed his mind, was about to offer his hand for the man to kiss, changed his mind again and settled for a simple handshake. The man in black gripped his hand firmly, though he was clearly not mollified.

"It is an honour and a privilege to meet you, Lord Hawthorne," he said coldly. "I am Sir Despard Murgatroyd, the twenty-second Baronet of Ruddigore, having just assumed the title on the death of my uncle Sir Roderic."

"Sir Despard?" whispered Helena to Robert. "He didn't become the Baronet until 1815!"

"May I venture to ask, however," he went on, "why you attend my uncle's funeral dressed as if to a fancy-dress ball?"

Hawthorne was stuck for a reply. Helena put in quickly, "Forgive us, Sir Despard, we did not know your uncle had died. We had come to visit him - he was holding a fancy-dress ball, that's why we are dressed like this," she finished, rather lamely. What _is_ happening? she thought.

"Oh?" Sir Despard raised an eyebrow. "He never said anything to me, though it doesn't surprise me. Forgive the tone of my interrogation. I had assumed that everyone knew of his passing."

"Oh, we're from a long way off," said Robert. "Yorkshire," he added in response to another question from the man's fierce eyebrows.

Sir Despard turned to Sir John. "You say you are John Murgatroyd. How are you related to us?"

Sir John pulled himself together and looked his ancestor squarely in the eye. He replied, "I am a second cousin of your uncle. My father was his first cousin."

The twenty-second Lord of Ruddigore appeared to accept his reply without reservation. He turned back to the Professor. "Where is your carriage?" he asked. "How did you get here?"

"Our carriage... got stuck in a bog a few miles away." Helena took up the tale once more. "The horses took fright at something and bolted. We lost all our other clothes and all our money, leaving us with only these costumes."

Sir Despard looked at the soiled hem of her dress. Tramping through bogs seemed a feasible explanation. He appeared deep in thought for a moment.

"Very well," he said at last. "If you would like to come into the house, I shall provide you with more suitable attire. We have..." he pulled his watch from his left waistcoat pocket and squinted at it, "forty minutes before the funeral procession is due to leave." He signalled to what looked like the butler, who was standing in the castle entranceway. The butler also looked familiar... "Drummond! This is the Earl of Malton, his son, his daughter and Mr. John Murgatroyd, my cousin who is her fiancé. They have had considerable misfortune whilst travelling here. They need fresh attire. See to all their needs."

"Very good, sir," Drummond the butler replied. Drummond? Oh, surely not...

They followed him into the house. Gone were the kiosk and the postcard stands. In their place stood some very gaudy wooden furniture: chests, velvet-covered chairs and the like. He led them through the Great Hall, where all the pictures were - at least that was the same - and up the wide staircase. Each was shown into a separate bedroom. The butler pulled clothes from wardrobes with effortless efficiency. Clearly, the Murgatroyds were accustomed to receiving guests, at least for funerals. The three men were dressed, with Drummond's assistance, in clothes similar to Sir Despard's. They were even provided with gold pocket watches. Professor Hawthorne tried (successfully) to suppress an attack of panic as this new Drummond, much like the old but not as ruddy, stripped him and put new clothes on him. To his relief he found that this one exhibited none of his descendant's cloying manner. It was almost like being dressed by a robot, except that the butler didn't fall over or bleat "System management error" over and over again in a monotonic voice. Drummond called a maid to help Helena into her mourning outfit. It was a relief to get out of her absurdly tight seventeenth-century garb, though her new clothes proved to be only a slight improvement. "When were women allowed to wear things that fit?" she said aloud as the maid tightened her dress at the back.

At last they were ready. Drummond led them to a carriage waiting in front of the main entrance. Sir Despard's carriage was to go in front and before that, the hearse. Drummond helped Helena climb into the carriage. Hawthorne, Robert and Sir John got in after her. Robert was about to sit next to her, then remembered that she was supposed to be engaged to Sir John and sat down opposite. "I'll never get used to this," he muttered. Fortunately, there was no-one else to ride in their carriage with them. Indeed, apart from Sir Despard himself, they appeared to be the only mourners.

It was then that the coffin appeared, carried by six pall-bearers. From where they were sitting, the time-travellers were looking down onto it. It was open. Helena gave a cry. The dead man looked considerably older than he had appeared in his painting: perhaps about fifty. But it was unmistakably the Dragoon Guard officer, the nice-but-fierce one. The pall-bearers loaded the coffin into the hearse, and the funeral procession made its slow way to the church in Rederring village.

"Well that clinches it," whispered Helena, so that the carriage driver wouldn't hear. "That was Sir Roderic, the man in the coffin I mean, the twenty-first Baronet. That means we're in the wrong time. This is 1815!"

"Shit!" Sir John exclaimed. The others looked at him sharply. He lowered his voice. "We've got to get out of here."

"I couldn't agree with you more," replied the Professor. "But we musn't interfere with things any more than we can help. If we disappear now, it will upset all the funeral proceedings, and we may alter history for the worse. No, we'll have to wait until this is over and then slip away, back to the tunnel."

Robert added, "Besides, we've left our seventeenth-century clothes at the castle. It'll take days to get some more, and we'd have to explain to the costumiers what had happened. I mean, think of something to tell them. Oh, and there's your spectacles and your migraine pills, Professor, and my DAT machine."

"Your _what_?" Hawthorne nearly leapt out of his seat.

"You know, my portable digital tape recorder." The Professor was about to speak, so Robert went on quickly. "Don't worry, it isn't very big, it's hidden away alright, no-one will find it. Look, early Baroque music is my field and we were going to exactly the right period in history. It's the chance of a lifetime. I mean, we have all these period instrument groups but we've never heard the music of that time played as it really was. I just thought, you know, if I got the chance, of making a few discreet recordings... if anything was happening, that is... would've helped with my PhD..."

"I see! We're on a nice little Music Department field trip, are we? Why didn't you go the whole hog and bring a video camera as well - " Hawthorne began, flushed with rage, but Helena interrupted him.

"I shouldn't worry too much, Professor. Even if anyone did find it, they wouldn't have a clue what it was. It's so far ahead of anything in this time. I mean, if this were 1963, when cassette tapes were invented, people could understand what it was for and someone could realistically copy the technology and that would upset the future, but not here."

Professor Hawthorne opened his mouth to speak again, changed his mind and stared sullenly at the countryside passing slowly by, and at his breath condensing in the cold air. "I just hope no-one does find it," he said at last.

"It's bloody freezing," Sir John remarked. "Sorry, I mean it's a bit nippy, what?" He grinned at Hawthorne. "I thought it was supposed to be April?"

"If Sir Roderic died just a few days ago, then it must be about the beginning of December, 1815," replied Helena.

"Hey, this chap in front introduced himself as Sir Despard. I thought Sir Ruth-something was the one after Roderic?" Robert asked.

Helena spoke in a whisper again. "Sir Ruthven was - I mean, is - Sir Roderic's heir. But ten years before Roderic died, that is, ten years ago, he ran away and faked his own death, and lived in Rederring as Robin Oakapple, a gentleman farmer. It was - I mean, it will be another ten years before he gets found out. In the meantime, his younger brother Despard has succeeded to the title."

"So he spends ten years doing his daily dirty deed when he doesn't need to?" said Sir John, shaking his head. "Poor sod."

"Apparently," Helena answered, "although he did good deeds every day as well to try and make up for everything, and he abandoned his life of crime when Sir Ruthven was discovered, the historical account suggests that he rather enjoyed his daily crimes. He didn't just drive his carriage around at a hundred miles an hour or anything like that, he was into kidnapping, armed robbery, rape, and goodness knows what else." All four looked round at Sir Despard in the carriage in front. He didn't appear to be paying them any attention.

"All the more reason to get out of here as soon as we can," Robert whispered to the other three. "I don't fancy getting bumped off just to satisfy his daily quota."

The procession arrived at the churchyard. Sir Despard got down from his carriage and came over to the party of time-travellers. He helped Helena out, then waited for the three men to climb down. "Your Grace," he said to Professor Hawthorne, "I would be deeply gratified if your son and your future son-in-law would join the party of pall-bearers."

"Oh, er, thank you but we really - " Robert began.

Hawthorne cut in quickly. "Thank you, Sir Despard, they would be most honoured."

"Thank you Professor!" Robert said out of the corner of his mouth as soon as Sir Despard was out of earshot. "So kind of you to land us right in it."

"We don't want to draw attention to ourselves," Hawthorne reminded him. "Just do as he asks. And anyway, if you were about to become the brother-in-law of one of the deceased's closest relatives you'd be expected to do something like this in this time."

Robert and Sir John joined the little knot of men waiting at the back of the hearse. Luckily these were all big, muscular types, so they wouldn't have to bear too much weight. They positioned themselves on either side of the coffin in the middle.

"I'm always afraid I might drop it," whispered Robert.

"Don't say things like that, for Christ's sake," Sir John answered him.

"Don't blaspheme," Robert countered. "This is a funeral, for God's sake."

They made their way into the church. As they entered, the organist struck up a ghastly dirge. Helena couldn't help thinking that he looked familiar too. Everyone I see in the past looks familiar, she thought. I must be getting paranoid.

Robert, Sir John and the other pall-bearers placed the coffin on a little table in front of the altar. Then they joined Sir Despard, the Professor and Helena in the pews. Robert was about to sit next to Helena, then remembered and let Sir John go before him. He sat next to Sir John on the end of the row. Helena looked round. There was a woman sitting on the back pew, who apparently didn't want to be noticed. She looked a pleasant, kind sort of person, about forty-five perhaps. She was also the only one in the church who was showing any emotion whatsoever. She was sobbing her heart out. Good grief, Helena thought. Is she really the only person in the whole world who's upset at Sir Roderic's death? Then she remembered the story Peter Goodheart had told her, of the girl - Hannah Trusty, was it? - who had been engaged to Sir Roderic and had dumped him at the altar when she found out who he really was. She must still have loved him, even after all those years. God, thought Helena, I'm getting all worked up about someone who's been dead for nearly two hundred years. She could feel a sob working its way up from the bottom of her stomach. She fought it back, taking a deep breath.

The service was short, unpleasantly so. Not even the vicar appeared convinced that Sir Roderic's soul was now with the Lord in Paradise. It wasn't so much what he did say, more what he neglected to say that struck the four time-travellers, especially Sir John. Is this what it was to be a bad Baronet of Ruddigore: you're dead, good riddance, praise the Lord? They sang the closing hymn, Psalm 23 to a tune none of them recognised, even after the first three verses. Then the pall-bearers returned to the coffin. There was an awkward pause while Sir John and Robert realised that they were needed once more. They hurriedly took up their places. The vicar led them out of the church, the rest of the mourners, led by Sir Despard, following the coffin. Both Robert and Sir John were worried that they would have a long walk ahead of them. Fortunately they only had to return to the hearse. Sir Roderic was to be buried in the family tomb. "Where's that?" Sir John asked Robert.

"In the grounds of the castle. When we visited the place in our time, the porch, the bit above the ground, had been demolished, and the hole filled in. It's the other side of the house from the summer-house where we first arrived." They loaded the coffin back into the hearse and rejoined Helena and the Professor in their carriage.

"Can we go back now?" Robert asked Hawthorne as the procession started back up the lane to the castle.

"Not until the end of the funeral," the Professor replied. "You and Sir John are needed to carry the coffin out of the hearse and into the tomb. Then we must pay our proper respects to Sir Despard. Then, and only then, can we collect our belongings from the castle and return to our time."

"Why?"

"As I said before, everything that happens here today must be as close as possible to how it originally happened. Granted, the fact that we are here has altered history in some way. But at least we must try to keep the disturbance to a minimum. If we slip off too soon, it will cause quite an upset and the consequences could be disastrous. We don't want to get ourselves into the history books!"

"But Professor," put in Helena, "surely the longer we remain here, the more likely we are to affect history?"

"I know that. But I think this is the safest plan."

At length they arrived at the Murgatroyds' family mausoleum. It was an ugly building, designed along the lines of a Greek temple but with much too much in the way of gaudy decoration all over the stonework. Moss and lichen clung to the pillars. In the middle was a large, heavy oak door. Sir Despard stepped to the front of the party, selected a key fastened to a ring on the end of his watch-chain and unlocked it. Two of the pall-bearers pushed it open. It creaked like doors are meant to in haunted houses in horror films. The entrance was a huge, black mouth.

"Jesus Christ, I'm not going down there," whispered Sir John to Robert.

There were some torches in a little sheltered alcove by the door. Sir Despard gave one to the vicar, one to Professor Hawthorne and took one for himself. He fished around in his waistcoat pockets and eventually found a small silver tinder-box. He lit his torch from this, then used his torch to light the vicar's and Hawthorne's. The pall-bearers picked up the coffin, Robert and Sir John in their places in the middle. The vicar led the way down a wide flight of steps into the underground tomb. The pall-bearers followed, then the Professor and Helena, and lastly Sir Despard.

"Professor," Helena whispered. "I think I'm going to faint."

There were more torches arrayed around the walls of the tomb, which Sir Despard lit. They seemed to fill the room with shadows more than light. In one corner was a stone sarcophagus, open, empty, waiting. The vicar stood at its head, and signalled to the pall-bearers. They lowered Sir Roderic's coffin into it as he chanted the usual funeral words. Everyone joined in the "Amen" at the end. Then the pall-bearers picked up the sarcophagus' lid which was resting against the wall. They dropped it into place. In the gloom Helena could just make out the inscription:-

SIR RODERIC MURGATROYD

BARONET OF RUDDIGORE

1765 - 1815

The Professor failed to make it out, having left his glasses in the castle. "For goodness' sake, Helena," he whispered furiously, "don't grip my arm so tightly."

"Sorry," she answered, relaxing just a tiny bit.

Sir Despard took what looked like a metal funnel with a long handle from a hook on the wall near the bottom of the steps and doused the torches on the walls with it. The vicar led the party back up the steps into the open air. Sir Despard doused his torch in a little pond a few yards away. The vicar and the Professor followed suit, while the two pall-bearers who had opened the door pulled it shut. It boomed ominously. Sir Despard locked it.

"Thank God that's over," said Sir John to his fellow time-travellers.

"Your Grace." Sir Despard strode purposefully towards them. "I would be honoured if you would stay awhile with me, that we may be of benefit to one another."

"I beg your pardon?" Hawthorne couldn't quite get to grips with the way people spoke in the early nineteenth century. Good heavens, he thought, what's it going to be like if - _when_ we do get to the seventeenth?

"I would wish that you would comfort me in my grief. I, in return, shall provide you with rest and refreshment, in order that you may recover your strength. Please stay as long as you wish. When you feel you are ready to return to your estate in Malton, I shall equip you with suitable clothing, to compensate in a small way for the grievous loss you have suffered. You may use my carriage to travel to the coach house in Plymouth. There you may board a comfortable coach to York."

Professor Hawthorne answered, "Thank you, Sir Despard. We accept your kind offer most heartily." Sir Despard bowed to him and walked off, in the direction of the house. They trudged after him.

"Once we've had a meal and got changed, we'll head back to the tunnel," Hawthorne said to the other three. "Don't worry, we'll be alright."

It took about ten minutes to reach the castle. The rain clouds that had greeted them on their arrival had now disappeared, and the sun was low in the sky, about to set. The view down the hill towards Rederring was breathtaking. Green fields rolled down and down, towards the tiny church tower peeping through the trees; an Englishman's country garden paradise. It didn't seem all that different to how it had been in their own time, but... everything was so clean, so unspoilt... Helena wondered what it was that was different, then it struck her that there weren't any great ugly electricity pylons planted across the countryside like so many lighthouse skeletons in search of brickwork and an ocean. Perhaps I was born in the wrong century, she thought. No, that's silly. How many women were doctors of astronomy in 1815? Or men, for that matter?

Drummond the butler was waiting for them when they arrived. Once again, he helped the men dress for dinner, whilst the maid assisted Helena. They met Sir Despard in the Banqueting Hall.

In their own time the Banqueting Hall had been dead, the electric light giving everything a hard edge, an almost two-dimensional quality. Now it was alive, countless candleabras filling the place with flashes of vivid colours. Sir Despard stood when they entered. "Your Grace," he said. "Pray be seated." He indicated to the Professor the chair at the end of the long table. He placed Robert on Hawthorne's right and Helena on his left. Sir John sat on Helena's left, and Sir Despard himself sat at the other end of the table, next to Sir John. "Would you give thanks, your Grace?" he asked.

Professor Hawthorne wasn't quite as unprepared for this as for most of what had happened so far, as he traditionally said grace at formal dinners at the University. He stood in his place and prayed: "Lord, we thank thee for the blessings of this day, and for the food thou hast provided for us. Amen."

"Amen," everyone chorussed. The servants served the food.

It was the best meal any of them had ever had. A rich broth - "Tastes like real vegetables, not tinned stuff," Robert remarked to Helena - a succulent cut of roast beef with more trimmings than they had ever seen and a delicious fruit cocktail, together with a red wine that other professors at home would have given an arm and a leg for. And not just any old students' arms and legs, their top research assistants' arms and legs. Whatever else Sir Despard Murgatroyd may be, he was undoubtedly the perfect host.

When they had finished, Sir Despard called Drummond over to him and whispered something. Then he said aloud, "Thank you so much for sharing this meal with me in my hour of grief. Now I expect you will wish to retire, especially after such a long and disastrous journey."

"Retire? Oh, yes, thank you," replied Hawthorne absent-mindedly.

"I have instructed Drummond to see to you. I hope you sleep well." He bowed to each of the three men and kissed Helena's hand as they followed the butler into the passage outside.

Drummond led each of them back to their own rooms. "I shall be back shortly, sir," he said to each of the men in turn as he left them. He brought Helena to her room last. "The maid will be with you in a moment, Miss Hawthorne," he said.

Helena was a bit surprised; she had forgotten she was supposed to be Lord Hawthorne's daughter. "Oh, er, thank you," she called out as he stepped back into the corridor and shut the door. "Oh, and if - "

Then there was a click.

Helena tried the door.

It was locked.

62


	7. Chapter 7

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Seven

There were no other doors in the room. There was one window; if only there were a fire escape ladder outside, Helena thought, I could make a dash for it. She peered through the grimy glass. She wasn't surprised to find nothing but a thirty-foot drop. If I try and jump, I'll probably twist my ankle or something, and then I'll have no chance at all of getting away, she thought. And anyway, I can't go without the others. I wonder if they've been locked in too? What _is_ Sir Despard playing at?

Her immediate thought was that he would bump them off, one at a time, to fulfil his crime quota, like Robert had said. But somehow this seemed too quick, too easy. She suspected that he might be able to get much more money's worth out of them if he kept them alive. He'd already done enough for today by kidnapping them, so they were probably safe until tomorrow at least. What then? She remembered Peter Goodheart telling her that Sir Despard had committed rape, more than once. Well, she thought. I bet he's never tried attacking a brown belt in karate before. A few sharp kicks in the -

The key turned once again in the lock. Helena's heart leapt into her mouth, then she adopted her "ready to spring" stance. She'd never practised karate with a stupid bloody dress like this on, though.

Sir Despard entered and locked the door behind him. The key was attached to the ring on the end of his watch-chain, which he put back in his right waistcoat pocket. Helena's eyes said, "Just you dare!" Sir Despard was immediately on the defensive.

"Forgive me for making you a prisoner in this shameful way, Miss Hawthorne. I assure you that I shall do you no harm," he began.

Helena cut in viciously. "No harm! What about those girls you attacked, then?"

Sir Despard looked surprised, even hurt. "I can assure you, I have never harmed any woman." He doesn't look like a sex maniac, Helena thought. Wait a moment. He's only been the Lord of Ruddigore for a couple of days. He hasn't done any of those things yet. Maybe he's still a goodish sort of person, perhaps he gets worse, becomes more corrupted as the years go by. "Neither do I intend to harm your father, nor your brother, nor your fiancé," he continued. "I would wish to explain my actions, and beg for your assistance."

Helena glared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you," he said. He sat in a comfortable chair in a corner, and indicated a similar one by the window. "Please, take a seat." Helena gathered up her dress awkwardly and sat down.

"Have you heard of the curse on the Lords of Ruddigore?" he asked.

"Sir Rupert Murgatroyd, the first Baronet, was cursed by a witch on May the first, 1608. Each Lord of Ruddigore must commit at least one crime every day, or he will die in agony."

Sir Despard seemed impressed. "Not many people know the exact date. Well done. As you say, each Lord of Ruddigore is bound to commit a crime every day. The last Baronet, my uncle Sir Roderic, died four days ago. My elder brother Ruthven, who should have succeeded him, died as a child."

"Oh, but he - " Helena stopped herself in time. What would happen to the space-time continuum if Sir Ruthven were discovered ten years too early?

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing," she said quickly. "John had told me so much about him, from when they used to play together as children, that I felt that I almost knew him myself. I did not know that he had not survived." God, he's never going to believe that, she thought. If Ruthven and John really had been friends, then he should have known John too.

"Ruthven often used to visit our relatives in Yorkshire," said Sir Despard, his eyes glazing over. "I was often unwell as a child and never had the opportunity to accompany him." There _is_ a God, thought Helena. Sir Despard snapped out of his reverie and resumed his story. "As I was saying, for the past four days I have been the twenty-second Baronet of Ruddigore, and so each day I have been bound to commit some dastardly deed. I am a slave of duty, one might say. As despicable as it is, nevertheless I have faithfully done my duty every day up to today. My crime for today was to make you my prisoners. But..."

"But what?"

He lowered his voice, as if the walls had ears. "I despise the life of crime that I must lead. But the ghosts of my ancestors inhabit the castle, and they will not allow me to shirk my duty. Twenty pairs of eyes, looking down upon me..."

"You mean the paintings in the Great Hall?" Helena remembered the odd look in the eyes of Sir Roderic's picture.

"At midnight each night since my uncle died, they have left their frames and come to haunt me. And now that Roderic is buried, he will join them." Sir Despard's voice trembled.

"But what can we do?"

"I am ashamed at myself, that not only should I be afraid, but also I should find myself compelled to ask the assistance of a woman." Helena's hackles rose at this, but remember, she told herself, this is 1815, nearly all men were sexist pigs in those days. "However, and I would not compel you, only ask you, if you would..."

"What?"

"If you would accompany me when I go into the Great Hall tonight. Oh, your fiancé, your father and your brother would be there also," he added before she could speak. "Yet I would wish more than anything else that you, Miss Hawthorne, could... speak to my ancestors."

"Why?" Oh bugger, she thought, the last thing I want to do is meet a ghost.

"If a pure young lady such as yourself were to speak to them on my behalf," stammered Sir Despard, "it may appease their thirst for - for blood. That is, if you were to plead for me, they may - possibly - allow me to continue my life blamelessly." He looked straight into her eyes. He had the same desperate, pleading expression as she had seen in Sir Roderic's painting. For a moment she didn't know what to say.

"If I agree," she said at last, while she studied the backs of her hands, "what will you do in return?"

"I give you my word of honour, I shall release you unharmed."

"All of us?"

"Of course."

She bit her lip. She had hoped that the story of the castle being haunted had been so much hogwash, perhaps even sheer hype to bring in more tourists. But Sir Despard had said that he had actually seen the ghosts. He could be lying, she thought. But he looked like he was scared out of his wits, and she didn't think he was that good an actor. Helena was open-minded about the existence of ghosts. She had never seen anything spooky herself, though a friend of hers from undergraduate days had messed around with an ouija board once and had ended up in a psychiatric hospital. Anything to do with the occult she steered clear of as a matter of course. She had almost made up her mind to say no. Then she remembered the curious look in Sir Roderic's eyes in the painting, echoed in the ones looking at her now. She nodded. "OK. We'll do it."

Sir Despard smiled for the first time since she had met him. "Thank you, Miss Hawthorne. I shall call for you just before midnight. Thank you." He stood up and went to the door. As he took the key from his waistcoat pocket, Helena thought of jumping him and making her escape. But the others will be locked up as well, she thought, and I'd have to get the keys off his watch-chain... Although the alarm bells were ringing like mad in one corner of her mind, she felt she had to trust him. He left the room, said one final "Thank you," and locked the door again.

It was still only half past nine. The hours dragged by, yet all the time Helena couldn't help being afraid of what might happen next. "It's at a time like this when you miss having a video recorder handy!" she said to her reflection in the long mirror on the door of the wardrobe. There was a bookcase by the bed. She glanced at the titles. Few of them struck any chords, though late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century fiction never had been her subject. She picked a book at random and flicked through it. She lost patience with it after a page or so. All long-winded description and not much happening - a bit like the Professor's lectures, she thought. She returned it to its place.

She lay down on the bed and tried to sleep for a while, but she couldn't relax. For a start, the bed itself was too soft, it was almost suffocating. She kept thinking about those eyes...

The next thing she knew, there was a soft tap on the door. The clock on the mantlepiece said 11.50. I must have dozed off after all, she thought. Without thinking, she said, "Come in!", then remembered that the door was locked. A key turned in the lock and the door opened. Sir Despard stood in the corridor. He was carrying an oil lamp.

"It is time, Miss Hawthorne," he said, a touch melodramatically. Oh well, thought Helena, if you are supposed to be a bad baronet, you may as well get into the part, I suppose. She followed him down the corridor. Apart from the weak glow from the lamp, it was pitch black. Why didn't anyone think to bring a torch? she thought.

He released Sir John next, then the Professor. They appeared to know the plan. If anything, Sir John seemed more scared than she was. Perhaps it was understandable; after all, he was the latest Baronet of Ruddigore. "I needn't remind you, your Grace," Sir Despard said to Hawthorne as he was let out of his room, "of the futility of an attempt to escape. My servants are guarding all the entrances." They came to a room at the end of the corridor. "This is your son's room, your Grace." He knocked. There was no response. He pulled his key-ring from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the door and knocked again. Still no response. He opened the door.

The room was empty.

An icy blast of wind blew in from the open window. Ordinarily it would have opened only a couple of inches, but Robert had clearly forced it up further. Sir Despard and the three time-travellers dashed across the room and looked out. There was a thick mass of ivy on the wall outside, from the window down to the ground. Sir Despard cursed quietly, then said aloud, "No matter. He cannot have gone far on a night as dark as this. I shall instruct my servants and they will find him." He shut the window and bolted it.

"You musn't hurt him! You promised!" Helena shouted.

"He will come to no harm if you obey my will," Sir Despard replied without emotion. "I can guarantee nothing otherwise. If you wish to ensure his safety, you must come with me now to the Great Hall as you agreed. You cannot help your brother any other way."

"Dammit, man, he might get killed," Hawthorne exclaimed.

Sir Despard was stunned to hear a noble peer swear as the like of a common mariner would do. But all he said was, "Come! It is time."

Sir John balled his fist, ready to smack him one. Helena quickly restrained him. "Don't!" she hissed. "He could have Robert killed! You know what he's like - I mean, going to be like. Look," she went on as he opened his mouth again, "I think it'll be alright, really."

Sir Despard was getting very agitated. He pulled his watch out of his pocket and moved it around to read it in the lamp's flickering light. 11.58. "Hurry! We must be in the Great Hall when the clock strikes midnight!" He bustled them out into the corridor and led the way down the stairs.

It felt colder than any December Robert had ever known. "There's something to be said for global warming after all," he said to himself. He had more layers of clothing on than he had ever worn in his life, apart from Graduation Day ceremonies. But the wind seemed to be finding its way through to the skin. It was also the darkest night since the world began - certainly the darkest night he could remember being totally lost. There was no moon, there were no stars. He looked all round. He couldn't remember what direction the house was. He wondered why there were no lights from any of the windows. All right, it would be another seventy years or so before they get the incandescent bulb together but they had oil lamps, didn't they? Sir Despard must have just liked the dark, he thought.

He had tried to find the path to the summer-house and the time tunnel, but there was nothing to find. The nice, smooth, gravel-covered road belonged to another time. The path they had used that morning (afternoon?) had been merely a muddy brown streak through the grass. Why would they build a summer-house, he thought, and then provide no path to get to it? Funny lot, these Murgatroyds. Sir John, nauseating creep that he was, was an OK sort of guy compared with his ancestors.

He had tried to get his bearings from the house when he left it. But his first priority had been to get away without being seen by the servants. It's a shame I haven't got my sword, he had thought as he was scrambling down the wall. Sir Despard must have got the butler to confiscate it while we were having dinner. He had darted from one piece of cover to the next, any hedge, bush or tree handy, until he felt sure there was no-one around and he could walk in the open. And now he hadn't a clue which direction to try next. He walked and walked.

At length he came to a high hedge. "This must be the edge of the grounds," he said aloud. An owl hooted in reply somewhere above him. "Well if I can't get help from our own time," he said, half to himself and half to the owl, "maybe I could try the indigenous population." He wriggled through the branches, tearing his jacket and scratching his face and hands as he did so. At last he freed himself and set off down the hill at a run.

He guessed - correctly - that the village of Rederring was at the bottom of the hill. "When I get there I'll call the police," he panted. But he couldn't remember there being a police station when they passed through the village on the way to the funeral. Then he thought, _Were_ there policemen in 1815? Probably not, knowing my luck. He squeezed through another hedge, and found himself in a cultivated field. An inviting light shone out from the window of a little cottage down below. Robert made for it at full pelt. "I hope the natives are friendly," he gasped.

An old man came out of the cottage as he approached. He wore a rough woollen shirt, moleskin breeches and a heavy leather apron. In one hand he carried an empty bucket. He walked very slowly, his back bent. When he saw Robert he dropped his bucket and staggered back in fright.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Robert said quickly. "I'm in - " Then he saw the man's face clearly in the light from the window. "Mr. Goodheart! How did you - I mean - "

"Who are you, sir? How did you know my name?" asked the man in the richest Cornish accent Robert could imagine.

"Er, well, I - I met one of your relatives once. He looked just like you. I'm Robert And - I mean, Robert Hawthorne, son of Lord Hawthorne." He offered his hand for the man to shake.

The new Goodheart accepted it nervously. No son of a lord had ever shaken hands with him before. Not even his master, as good and kind as he was, would shake hands with a man in his station.

"Look, I'm in a bit of a fix," Robert went on. "My friends - I mean, my father, my sister and her fiancé - " he couldn't help wincing inside as he said it - "are being held prisoner in the castle up there, you know, Ruddigore Castle."

Goodheart stiffened. "You had better speak with my master." He opened the door of the cottage.

"Your master? You mean, this isn't your cottage?"

"Oh no, sir, I am but a servant, Adam Goodheart. My master is Robin Oakapple, the finest young gentleman farmer in Rederring, if not the land." He went inside and stood by the door, like a footman in a great house, and announced, "Master, this is the Honourable Mr. Robert Hawthorne, the son of Lord Hawthorne. His family are in great danger and need assistance urgently." He beckoned Robert into the house, retrieving his bucket as he did so.

It was warm inside, and cheerful. Heavy oak beams criss-crossed the ceiling. Copper pans hung from hooks on the walls. The stone floor was scrubbed clean. At one end were two hammocks. There didn't appear to be any stairs. It reminded Robert of those rosy Dickensian Christmas card scenes that he hadn't believed had ever really existed. A man was sitting in front of a warm and cosy log fire in a high-backed chair, his back to the door. He stood and turned.

He was a good-looking chap, about twenty-five, with a wispy black beard and a smile that reached into his eyes. He wore moleskin breeches like Goodheart's, a loose white shirt and a bright red waistcoat with a small silver watch-chain. He offered his hand to Robert. "Mr. Hawthorne, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said with genuine feeling. "I am Robin Oakapple, at your service." Robin Oakapple? Where have I heard that name before? Robert thought. He shook the hand firmly. Oakapple turned to Goodheart. "Adam! Mr. Hawthorne is hurt. Bring hot water to wash his wounds."

"Very well, sir," answered the old servant. He gathered up his bucket which he had put down just inside the door and went out.

"Please, sit down," Oakapple continued, indicating the chair by the fire. Robert sat. Oakapple picked up another chair from under a rough wooden table by the wall and placed it next to Robert's, so that they faced each other. "Now," he said. "How may I be of assistance to you?"

"My father, my sister and her fiancé are being held prisoner by Sir Despard Murgatroyd in Ruddigore Castle." The young man's eyes opened wide and he turned pale. Robert looked at him thoughtfully. Where did I hear his name before? It was definitely something to do with this Ruddigore business... "I was locked up as well but I escaped. I, er, I don't know who's in authority round here, I'm from Yorkshire you see, but if you could help me..."

Oakapple stood up and began to pace around the little room, rubbing his chin frantically. Then he said, "I see your plight. I would very much like to help you. You may stay here tonight. You will be quite safe, I can assure you. As soon as it is light, I shall take you to see the Sheriff in Truro. He is a good man. Explain your predicament to him, and he will send..."

"But that will take ages!" Robert interrupted. "Can't you and a few men from the village come back to the castle with me?" Oakapple stopped pacing and stared at him. He shook his head. "But we may not have much time! You know how the Baronet of Ruddigore has to commit a crime every day?" The other man turned paler still. For a moment Robert thought he had stopped breathing. Finally he nodded. "He might - you know - make an attempt on their lives or something. Please, we must do something now!"

"Sir," Oakapple replied, labouring to keep his voice level. "I am not an uncharitable man. I always try to help a person in need, whatever that need may be. Yet I cannot enter the castle. Forgive me, but you do not know what you ask. It would be too... dangerous. For us all, I mean," he added quickly.

For you, you mean, Robert thought. You're only worried about yourself... Eureka! "Robin Oakapple! Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

At that moment, Goodheart re-entered, his bucket full of hot water. When he heard Robert shout, he dropped it again, scalding himself. He yelled with pain. "Oh, I - I'm sorry," Robert stammered. "Quick, put your hand in some cold water, that'll stop it from bruising." Goodheart, however, seemed more concerned with the mess on the floor. Robert steered him outside, found a horse-trough a few feet away, plunged the old man's arm into it and held it there. Goodheart yelled again with the shock of the icy water, then the tension in his face slackened slowly. After about a minute Robert released his grip. Goodheart took his burned hand out of the trough, dried it on his apron and rubbed it with his other hand. Robert ushered him gently back into the cottage.

Oakapple was standing by the fire, shaking like a leaf and breathing heavily. He seemed to be gazing at a point a good mile beyond the cottage wall. When he finally spoke he sounded almost like a child. "How did you know... who I am?"

What can I say? thought Robert. "Sir," put in Goodheart. "There are but two who know your true identity: myself and your foster-brother, Richard. You know I have sworn to serve you for ever in all things, and I would never betray you. As for Richard, he has been at sea for more than a year. And he would not betray you either, I am sure." He looked at his master, afraid that he might not believe him. Oakapple looked inquiringly at Robert.

"It's a bit difficult to explain," he answered slowly. "I don't think you'd believe how I found out about it, but er, I know a bit about the future. Your future, I mean."

"My future?" The young farmer was quite taken aback. "Are you... a fortune-teller of some kind?"

"No, certainly not." As far as Robert was concerned, people who read their horoscopes in the newspaper were barmy. "You see... I've _been_ in the future. It would be too difficult to explain how, you wouldn't understand. I hardly understand it myself. But anyway, I know that when Sir Roderic Murgatroyd died, his heir should have been Ruthven, but he ran away ten years before and faked his own death. He went to live in Rederring, calling himself Robin Oakapple, and worked as a farmer. Meanwhile Despard succeeded to the title. Then ten years later..." He stopped short, remembering the Professor's warnings.

"Yes?"

"No, I musn't tell you, it might upset the course of history - I mean, of the future."

"Sir, whoever you are, I do not know by what devilish means you have discovered my true name, but I would beg you, in the name of our Lord, not to spread it abroad. I live a happy and blameless life here, as Robin Oakapple. I would sooner die than become the bad Baronet of Ruddigore Castle."

"Sir." The old servant spoke up again. "He is alone. He is hurt. You are stronger than he. He may not leave here if you do not will it."

Oakapple collapsed into one of the chairs by the fire. He said quietly, "No, Adam. I wish to harm no-one, least of all a guest in my own house. I do not know if his intentions be good or evil, still I would rather repay evil with good."

"Look, I'm not a spy of Sir Despard, if that's what you're worried about. It's no skin off my nose if you want to call yourself 'Robin Oakapple'. You can call yourself Arnold Schwarzenegger for all I care." The two men looked at Robert in surprise. They obviously weren't too familiar with late twentieth-century film actors. "Besides, you've another ten years yet before... before."

"Before what, sir? I wish you would tell me what is to happen to me!"

"If I told you, and you had knowledge in advance, you'd do things differently to how you're supposed to and the space-time continuum would really get messed up." They responded with another blank look. "Don't worry, it all turns out alright, for you at least. It's us that have the real problems..."

Goodheart tapped Oakapple on the shoulder and spoke softly in his ear. "Sir, I confess that I cannot understand what he says about the future, nor do I believe that he has seen it as he claims. Yet I feel in my heart that he is a good man. He wears the clothes of a gentleman, he talks like a man who has been educated, yet he has the same kind regard for humble folk such as myself that you yourself display."

Oakapple nodded in reply, then said to Robert, "Very well, Mr. Hawthorne. You understand why I may not come to the castle with you, for fear of being discovered. Yet if you give your word of honour not to reveal my true identity to another living soul, I shall help you as much as I can." Robert nodded. "First, Adam will attend to your wounds."

"They're only scratches really," said Robert.

"Then I shall introduce you to Mr. Anderson, our village blacksmith." It was the turn of Robert's eyes to widen with disbelief. Oh, come on, Robert, he told himself, it's a common enough name... "He has three strong full-grown sons. They will be glad to help a friend of Robin Oakapple." He smiled. "I shall tell him that I may not accompany them as one of my sows is about to give birth, and I shall need Adam's assistance. Do not worry, they are God-fearing folk and do not fear the Lord of Ruddigore."

"Oh, it wasn't that," replied Robert hurriedly. "It's just that... I'm related to some people called Anderson, that's all. But what if they find out you're telling them a terrible story?"

"'Tis no story, sir! I do have a sow about to give birth." He picked up a pair of knee-length brown leather boots standing in front of the fire, sat down and pulled them on. "Adam! More hot water, if you please."

"And I promise not to shout this time," Robert added with a grin.

As Goodheart dabbed the scratches on Robert's face, he said, "Pardon me for asking, sir, but which one of my relatives did you meet?"

"Chap called Peter. Peter Goodheart." The old servant looked puzzled. Oh well, may as well tell him the truth as anything... "Looks just like you, works in the castle." Puzzlement turned to surprise. "Nearly two hundred years from now."

Goodheart appeared stunned for a moment. Then he laughed. Seems a nice old boy, Robert thought. Much like the other one...

Oakapple had gone to find the blacksmith. At that moment he returned, with four large, well-built and muscular men in tow, one in his forties and the others in their late teens or early twenties. They carried heavy wooden cudgels. Oakapple introduced them. "Mr. Hawthorne, this is Mr. Thomas Anderson, our village blacksmith, and his sons, Robert, George and John." Robert shook hands with them very gingerly. For one thing, they all had a grip like iron. More than that, though, was the irony of it. I'm Robert Anderson, he thought, pretending to be someone else, shaking hands with someone else whose name is Robert Anderson. And he's got a brother called John as well. Good grief, if I meet anyone called Helena on this trip I think I'll go nuts.

"A gentleman should not go into battle unarmed," said the senior Anderson. He handed Robert a thin-bladed sword. Robert peered at it anxiously. "Do not worry, sir, I wish for no payment. Mr. Oakapple explained that you had been imprisoned and escaped with only the clothes you are wearing. As for me, I would regard it as payment enough if we can but teach this new Lord of Ruddigore a lesson. I do not wish that he would carry off my daughter!"

"Erm, there's just one thing..."

"Yes, sir?"

"How do we get to the castle from here?"

"Ah, don't worry about that," one of the younger ones answered. "There's a little hollow under the hedge, we all know it. We can get into the grounds and up to the house without them ever seeing us."

Thomas Anderson led them outside. Oakapple and Goodheart stood on the threshold. "Goodbye, Mr. Hawthorne," Oakapple said, shaking his hand. "May God grant you success."

"Goodbye, sir," said Goodheart.

Robert smiled. "Goodbye, and thank you." He turned and followed the blacksmith and his sons up the lane. It felt colder than ever. He threaded his sword through his belt, jiggling it around so that he could still walk without it cutting into his leg, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He remembered thinking how much he'd liked himself in his swashbuckling outfit, his secret desire to be Errol Flynn as Robin Hood. It was now about twelve hours later, nearly two hundred years earlier and he felt more like the cowardly one in "Dick Dastardly In His Flying Machines". The five men walked in silence.

After a short while they left the road and cut through the field on their right. They were climbing more steeply now. The Andersons, the local ones that is, seemed to know each tree, bush and stone; each was a landmark as clear as a motorway exit sign. It wasn't long before they reached the hedge that marked the boundary of the grounds of Ruddigore Castle. At one point the ground underneath the hedge dipped, forming a semi-circular lip about five feet across. At the bottom of the hollow was a hole, plenty big enough for Robert to crawl through but only just wide enough for the smith and his sons. Robert whispered to the other Robert, "How come the Baronet never filled this in?"

"In case he needs to make a secret escape," the Cornishman replied. "Like he might need to tonight." He grinned wickedly.

Robert recalled Oakapple's parting words as he clambered through the hole. "May God grant you success." He found himself praying seriously for the first time in his life. "God, please let this work out alright. Otherwise, the whole Universe is in the ..." He adjusted his sword and hurried after his four companions.

74


	8. Chapter 8

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Eight

A tall grandfather clock near the bottom of the stairs began chiming twelve o'clock as Sir Despard, Helena, Sir John and the Professor reached the entrance to the Great Hall. Sir Despard opened the huge double doors. "Now," he whispered to Helena, "stay close to me. Do not be afraid, they will not harm you."

Helena looked at him. He looks like he's about to have a cardiac arrest, she thought, and he's telling me not to be afraid. They stepped into the Great Hall. The sound of their feet bounced back and forth, but the silence was even louder. The only light came from Sir Despard's lamp, which illuminated their faces and a little pool of floor mosaic all around them. Beyond that, shadows loomed and receded as the lamp swung to and fro. The paintings could not be seen. They waited.

After an absurdly long twenty seconds Sir John spoke. "It looks as though I was right, Prof - er, your Grace. There aren't any ghosts here - "

"Good evening." A voice from behind them cut him short. Both Helena and Sir John cried out in surprise. The colour drained from Sir Despard's face. The Professor, however, didn't seem at all perturbed; he had a wry smile on his face. The newcomer stepped forward into the pool of light.

It was Sir Roderic. Not the young Dragoon officer in the painting, but the older man they had seen earlier that day (or rather, the previous day) in his coffin. He was dressed, however, in the same kind of uniform. His helmet and breastplate reflected dully in the dim lamplight. He spoke cooly, confident that he was the master of the situation. "Despard! My dear fellow. How nice to see you again!"

Another voice from somewhere in the blackness interrupted testily. "I say, Roderic! Put a bit more _into_ it. You're meant to frighten him, not wish him a happy birthday!"

Sir Roderic turned towards the unseen speaker and replied, " _If_ you please, father. Just a few moments since, as it seemed to me, I was on my deathbed, gasping for breath, while everything turned black. I thought I was destined for oblivion and would never know anything more. Can't I express some measure of pleasure upon seeing a human face once more? Even if it is my pathetic excuse for a nephew, Despard?" He sniffed.

Sir Despard was somewhat unprepared for this kind of reception. "Good evening, sir," he said in a faltering voice. There was an awkward pause. "Er, how - how are you?"

"Jesus Christ, he's dead," shouted Sir John. "What d'you want to ask him that for, you great - " Helena grabbed his arm to shut him up. She didn't think the ghosts could do them any real harm; after all, the curse had nothing to do with them and they were being held prisoner there against their will. But she didn't want to take the risk of upsetting them, and Dr. Smith the scientist made a point of never assuming anything without clear evidence to back it up.

The ghost of Sir Roderic turned once more to Sir Despard. "I see you invited some guests to my funeral, that's very thoughtful of you. Will you introduce me?"

"This is Lord Hawthorne, the Earl of Malton, his daughter Helena and her fiancé, Mr. John Murgatroyd, your second cousin, Uncle. But I didn't invite them, you did."

"Balderdash, lad!" Sir Roderic retorted, his grey moustache bristling with anger. "How the Devil could I invite people to my own funeral?"

"No, I meant the fancy-dress ball you were going to have," spluttered Sir Despard in confusion.

"What are you talking about?" Sir Roderic was barking like a sergeant-major now. "I was planning no such ball. Have you taken leave of your senses?" Helena's blood ran cold. Oh, shit, she thought, we're in trouble now.

Professor Hawthorne stepped in. "Please forgive the small deception, Sir Despard. We felt we had to give some explanation for our inappropriate mode of dress upon our arrival. We were genuinely unaware of Sir Roderic's passing, and we thought it would be an amusing prank to arrive in seventeenth-century costume. Unfortunately, as we said, we lost our carriage and our other clothes on the journey. When you told us that Sir Roderic had died, we felt that our joke would have caused you offence, so we invented the story of the fancy-dress ball." Hawthorne hoped that his attempt to sound like a nineteenth-century earl was proving convincing.

Helena stared at the Professor. Why isn't he frightened? OK, this Sir Roderic isn't like anything from a horror film; if anything, he's got a sort of Sean Connery-meets-Harrison Ford middle-aged sex appeal. But this man's _dead_ , for goodness' sake!

Sir Despard seemed to accept the Professor's explanation. At least, in his current terrified state he was in no state to argue. But Sir Roderic continued, "And why do you say this man is my second cousin? I've never heard of him before!"

Sir Despard looked pleadingly at Sir John. Sir John returned the look with a disgusted glare. What a pathetic, useless wimp, he thought. Is he really my great-great-God-knows-how-many-great-grandfather? I'll show him what a real Baronet of Ruddigore is like. These ghosts don't scare me. They can't do anything to me here, in this time... can they? "Er, well, that is, when I say I'm a cousin, I really mean I'm a... a... sort of, more distant relative, really." Sir Roderic's eyes burned into him. "I am, honestly, but you can't do anything to me," he said quickly, the note in his voice rising.

Sir Roderic continued to stare at Sir John. "You look like a Murgatroyd," he said at last. "But you have the manner of a shopkeeper more than a gentleman. Who are you sir, and where do you come from?"

Sir John looked down in panic. This ghost has got a very lethal-looking sword on his belt, he thought, and I wouldn't like to take the risk that it isn't solid... His mind raced. He wasn't a natural liar, and he couldn't think of anything to say that would sound convincing. But he was a salesman by profession, and a good one. Try to think of him as just a difficult sort of client, he told himself. He took a deep breath and said, "I was born in New York, though my father died when I was a year old. My mother brought me to England and put me in a boarding school near Manchester. I studied Mathematics at Cambridge, and now I work for a rec - I mean, a company that sells music."

Sir Roderic's moustache rose in astonishment. "A company that sells music? What kind of profession is _that_ for a Murgatroyd? And speaking of a Murgatroyd's profession," he turned back to Sir Despard, "have you fulfilled your duty this past day?"

"Yes, Uncle," Sir Despard sobbed. "I have made these people here my prisoners."

Sir Roderic's face broke into a broad grin. "So! These good people are hostages! We can have a lot of fun with them." He laughed; it came from the bottom of his chest, with perfect diaphragm control and excellent projection. And it sounded thoroughly evil. And yet... Helena was looking straight into his eyes. He quickly dropped his gaze and continued to laugh, at a point two feet to the left of her head, eyelids half shut. She decided to go for it.

"Well if I understand it rightly, a Baronet of Ruddigore can only die by refusing to commit his daily crime, which you must have done four days ago, Sir Roderic. So you can't be as bad as you're trying to make out, and I don't know what you've got to gain by trying to frighten us." She paused, took a deep breath and went on. "And I don't know why you have to force Sir Despard to commit a crime every day. Why can't you leave him alone?" She stopped, terrified in case he and the other ghosts inflicted some kind of torture upon her. But Sir Roderic just stared at her. No woman he'd ever known had had this kind of spirit and courage. Except for dear little Nannikin, of course.

One of the other ghosts shuffled forward, to the edge of the circle of light. It was difficult to see him clearly, but as far as Helena could tell, he seemed to be - to have been - an admiral in the navy. He laughed. "Met your match, eh, Roderic? Never could refuse a pretty lady, eh?"

Sir Roderic pulled himself together. "Father!" he snapped at the other ghost. "Just because I am - I was - a bad baronet does not mean I cannot remain a gentleman. Forgive us, my dear," he said to Helena in a more friendly tone. "I - we are not free spirits, we are... controlled by the power of the curse. The longer we have lived under its effect as the reigning Baronet, the more evil we have become." His eyes adopted the same pleading expression she had seen in his painting, and earlier that evening in Sir Despard.

Helena met his gaze evenly. "We can help you," she said. "If you let us go, we can free you from the curse altogether."

Sir Roderic and Sir Despard both looked at her with a half-curious, half-disbelieving expression. "How?" asked Sir Roderic.

Helena looked at the Professor. She felt she had to tell them something to persuade them to let them go. But what should she say?

The Professor was still smiling. "Excuse me, Sir Roderic, but may I...?" He reached out to touch the ghost of the Dragoon officer. His hand met cloth, the sleeve of Sir Roderic's tunic. He reached out with his other hand. It passed straight through.

"Profes - I mean, father!" exclaimed Helena. "What are you doing?"

"I think he must look solid because our minds won't allow our eyes to see two realities at once. But he isn't a ghost, at least, not what we think of as a ghost." Hawthorne smiled at Sir Roderic.

"What?" Sir John stared at him. "You just put your hand straight through his arm!"

"And Sir Despard buried him this afternoon!" said Helena.

"Your Grace," Sir Roderic almost hissed at Hawthorne, "I _died_ four days ago. I distinctly remember it!"

"You did and you didn't. You're not meant to find this out for another ten years, but I think we'll have to put you in the picture." He paused as he realised what he'd just said. "I don't mean your painting! I mean, the position you're in. A Baronet of Ruddigore can only die by refusing to commit his daily crime."

"Oh, bloody hell, here we go again," Sir John muttered under his breath.

"Yes I know that," replied Sir Roderic impatiently. "What of it?"

"So to refuse to commit your daily crime is to effectively attempt suicide. But attempting suicide is itself a crime, so you shouldn't have died at all."

"Then I'm practically alive!" Sir Roderic's face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning, but the Professor cut him short.

"It's more complicated than that. It then means that if you committed your daily crime, you didn't really attempt suicide by refusing to commit your daily crime, so you didn't commit your daily crime after all and you should have died."

Sir Despard started to shake, making the lamp sway and creating strange shadows on everyone's faces. "What?" he quavered.

Professor Hawthorne continued, "So you're both dead _and_ alive at the same time. That's why you exist now as a ghost. You're the representation of two alternative realities overlapping on one another. In one reality you're alive, so we can see you and you can talk to us. In the other you're dead so we can pass right through you."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Sir Roderic.

"The man's mad," came the voice of the Admiral-ghost from somewhere outside the circle of light.

"I think I'll have to tell you who we really are and what we're here for," said the Professor. "I don't think you'll believe us, but I think it's the only way you'll let us help you." All eyes fixed upon him. "My name really is Hawthorne, Mervyn Hawthorne if you must know - "

"Pleased to hear it, sir. I am Sir Mervyn Murgatroyd," the Admiral-ghost interrupted.

"But I'm not an earl. I am a professor, the Head of the Astronomy Department of the University of North Yorkshire."

"The University of - where? There's no such place!" Sir Roderic retorted.

"Not at the present time, no," answered the Professor. "But we're not from the present time, we're from the future."

"What?" chorussed all the ghosts, with Sir Despard taking the lead tenor line.

"We're from about a hundred and eighty years in the future. We've come back in time to try and prevent the curse on your family from ever being pronounced in the first place," Helena said quietly.

Sir Roderic stared at her. This maid reminds me of little Nannikin, he thought. So pure, so gentle... She couldn't be lying. But how could it be true? "But why are you here now?" he said aloud.

"We've developed a way to travel through time but we haven't perfected it yet. We made a mistake in calculating how far to go back. We should have arrived in Sir Rupert's time, in the year 1608. That was why we were wearing those costumes, Sir Despard. Instead we arrived here. If you let us go, we can go back to 1608 and prevent the witch from cursing Sir Rupert, and you'll be free!"

For a moment everything was quiet. Helena was willing Sir Despard and the ghosts to believe her. But before anyone could say anything, there came an enormous crash from the far end of the hall. There was the sound of someone cursing, then a voice shouted, "Helena! Are you alright?"

"Robert! What happened to you? Where are you?"

"Don't worry, we'll sort out Sir Despard." Footsteps echoed down the hall, getting closer. It sounded like Robert was not alone.

As soon as he heard Robert's voice, Sir Despard, who had been kneeling on the floor, quivering like a jelly, pulled himself together. He stood up and jumped backwards, out of the light. He edged along the wall, feeling his way, until his hands came to rest on the hilt of a ceremonial dagger hanging there. Meanwhile Professor Hawthorne picked up the lamp and waved it around to try and discover where Sir Despard had gone. Robert, accompanied by four burly men carrying heavy wooden cudgels, came into the light. He was brandishing a sword inexpertly, in a rough parody of Oliver Reed in "The Three Musketeers". The others wielded their cudgels with infinitely more skill. At the same moment, Sir Despard stepped back into view, grabbed Helena and pressed the dagger to her throat. "Get back!" he screamed. "Or my crime for today will be murder!"

But Helena was not so easily cowed. Overpowering an attacker armed with a knife was second nature to a brown belt in karate. Oh well, here goes, she thought, dress or no dress... She twisted his arm around and threw him over her shoulder. He hit the floor with a bump, dropping the dagger. He cried out, more with surprise than with pain. Hawthorne scooped up the dagger quickly. Sir Despard staggered to his feet. The eldest of the four strangers swung his cudgel round in a wide arc and struck Sir Despard hard on the back of his head. He cried out again, this time for sheer agony. He dropped to the ground, out of the circle of light. Hawthorne swung the lamp round again. But Sir Despard had gone.

"Don't hurt him!" cried Helena. "He hasn't harmed us!"

"He was trying to kill you, miss," the big man replied.

At that moment a couple of male servants, carrying lamps and armed with pistols, appeared at the far end of the hall. They ran towards the little crowd. "Don't come any closer!" Robert yelled. "Or we'll..."

"Stop!" commanded a voice. Everybody froze. They had forgotten the ghosts. Up till then Robert and the four men who had come with him didn't appear to have noticed them at all. Sir Roderic strode into the light. In his Dragoon Guard uniform, he looked an impressive figure. He turned first to the two servants. "Go!" he ordered. "I shall deal with them!" They retreated into the passage leading to the stairs, shutting the double doors behind them. Then he swung round to face the smith. His eyes bore into his skull. The man gibbered and backed away, but still Sir Roderic's gaze held him.

Robert stared at Sir Roderic in confusion. "Helena! Who is this? What's going on?"

One of the blacksmith's sons answered in a terrified squeak, "It's the ghosts! The ghosts of the Lords of Ruddigore!"

"They can put a curse on us!" cried another. "We must get away from here quick!"

"Ghosts? Oh, rubbish! Look!" Robert reached out to pat Sir Roderic's solid arm. Only it wasn't solid. He stared at his hand in disbelief. Everybody jumped.

"It went straight through!" exclaimed the young man who had spoken first. "Merciful Lord, protect us!"

"Make for the door, lads!" shouted the smith. He turned and ran for it, back down the hall towards the main entrance. His sons galloped after him. "Run!" he bellowed to Helena and the others from half-way down. "Don't bother with Sir Murgatroyd, save yourselves!"

Helena, Sir John, the Professor and especially Robert stayed absolutely still. There was another loud crash as the blacksmith and his sons reached the far end of the hall, some more swearing, and what sounded like four people all trying to squeeze through a door at once. Then there was total silence.

Robert peered at his fingers in the dim glow of the oil-lamp. Sir Roderic turned to face him. He gave him the same hard stare that he had given the senior Anderson. Helena spoke up quickly. "Sir Roderic, this is my fiancé, Robert Anderson. He's the fourth member of our party, from our time. Robert, this is Sir Roderic Murgatroyd, the man who was... you know... today."

Robert swallowed hard. "You mean he's one of the..." Helena nodded. There was a pause. Then Robert said, "But where's Sir Despard gone?"

"He got away in all the confusion," replied Helena. "He must be hiding somewhere."

"But it should be easy to find him," said the Professor. "Look." He pointed to the ground. There was a trail of blood leading out of the circle of light, in the direction of the double doors they had entered by.

"We'll have to find him quick. He might have a fractured skull or something. Come on!" Helena darted off towards the doors.

"Helena!" Robert called after her. "Let's just get out of here. We might - "

She stopped and turned to face him. "But he might need help!" Robert stared at her in disbelief. "Robert!" she said in a rage. "He's not that bad! I talked to him earlier on, after he'd locked us in our rooms. He had to do something to fulfil the curse, but underneath he's OK!"

"He tried to kill you!" Robert exploded.

"He was frightened! You and those men came crashing in, you said, 'We'll sort him out', he was scared out of his wits! Wouldn't you have been in his position? Anyway, I don't think he would really have harmed me, not after what he said to me..."

"What did he say?"

"He wanted me to speak to his ancestors on his behalf, to ask them to leave him alone and let him live his life without having to commit his daily crime. _That's_ why we were here! Didn't he tell you?"

"Of course he didn't tell me!" Robert yelled back. "He came to my room after he'd locked us in, pointed a pistol at me and told me that we would have to go with him into the Great Hall at midnight or he'd kill us one by one! Well I thought, bugger this for a game of soldiers, so I forced the window open and went off to get help."

"Oh come on, let's find him," Sir John interrupted. "If anything happens to Sir Despard, it's goodbye cruel world for me too!"

"What do you mean?" asked Sir Roderic, who was crouching on the floor, dipping his leather-gloved finger in the pool of blood Sir Despard had left behind and examining it with interest.

"I'm Sir Despard's great-great-great-however-many-it-is-grandson. If he dies, I won't be born!"

Sir Roderic started to laugh. Then he looked into Sir John's face and stopped, as he realised that Sir John was serious. Then he smiled again. "So you're the future Lord of Ruddigore, young man?" he said with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Sir John thought, Oh God, I've let myself in for it now. But he shrugged and said, "Yes, I'm the thirtieth Baronet, Sir John Murgatroyd. But you can't do anything to me, not in this time," he added quickly.

"Let's find Sir Despard," insisted the Professor. "If he dies now - "

"He won't die," Sir Roderic interposed. "He can't. Not until he fails to commit his daily crime."

"Yes he can. He isn't the true Lord of Ruddigore, so he isn't bound by the curse."

"Not the true Lord of Ruddigore... What do you mean?"

"As I said before, you're not meant to find this out for another ten years, but Ruthven, who should have inherited the title after you, is alive and well and living under an assumed name."

"You were right, father," declared Sir Roderic, shaking his head. "He's out of his mind - "

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Helena. "Your nephew's life could be in danger! Can't you understand that? Come on!" She darted forward once more. The other time-travellers followed.

Sir Roderic stared after them for a moment, his shoulders drooped. No-one had ever spoken to him like this before, certainly not a woman. Apart from little Nannikin, of course... Travellers through time? Nonsense! Only a madman could tell a tale like that...

Suddenly he had a picture in his mind. It was as if he was looking down from his painting. He could see this man Hawthorne, the pretty young lady and one of the two younger men walking around the Great Hall. It was daylight but there was another light, a harsh light, which came from strange lamps that never flickered, fixed to the walls all round the hall. They were all dressed oddly but the maid was wearing a dress shorter than any he had ever seen worn by any gentlewoman. She was looking up at him with concern in her eyes...

All at once he sprang after them, following the little patch of light. His boots impeded him; they had been designed for riding, not for walking and certainly not for running. He cursed himself silently for having insisted on being painted wearing them, even though they were not correct uniform. He had wanted to look imposing in his picture. If he had realised that he would have to spend eternity wearing them, he would have chosen something a little more practical... He bounded up the stairs as fast as he could, determined not to lose sight of these mysterious strangers. He caught up with them just as they reached the door to Professor Hawthorne's bedroom. It was locked.

"Can you break it down, Robert?" the Professor was asking.

"These doors are solid oak, Professor," Robert replied. "You'd need a bloody great axe to get through this, and even then it'd take you the best part of an hour."

Sir Roderic stepped forward. "Leave this to me," he said. He paused, swallowed hard, shut his eyes and walked straight through the door.

"Wow!" exclaimed Robert. "There's something to be said for being a projection of two alternative realities after all."

Nothing happened for a minute or so. "What's going on in there?" asked Sir John.

"Look," Helena said, pointing at the keyhole.

The key was being pushed into the lock, on the inside of the door. Very slowly it turned; the time-travellers could hear Sir Roderic's muffled curses as he strained to turn it. As Sir John grasped the handle, Robert called out, "Careful! He had a gun before."

Sir John answered, "He didn't have one when he left the Hall, and if there was one in the Professor's room the Professor should have found it. Come on!"

The four time-travellers burst into the room. Sir Roderic was kneeling over the unconscious form of Sir Despard. He was trying to tear one of the sheets off the bed into strips to make a bandage for Sir Despard's still-bleeding head; he was finding it difficult as sometimes his fingers would slip through and the sheet would fall to the floor.

"Here, let me," said Helena. She snatched up the sheet and expertly fashioned a bandage, which she tied tightly round the cut. "It doesn't look all that bad," she commented as she finished. "He's probably concussed but I think he should be OK in a few hours or so."

Sir Roderic stood up and looked at her anxiously. He spoke urgently. "But he said that the pain was unbearable. He said he had found some medicine in a pouch in Lord Hawthorne's costume. The writing on the bottle said that the pills in the bottle would stop pains in the head, so he took them. Then he fell into a swoon. I tried to wake him but I could not. Why - "

"Give me that bottle." Professor Hawthorne grabbed the little brown plastic bottle impatiently out of Sir Roderic's hand as he held it out to him. "Good God, it's empty!"

"What are they, Professor?" asked Helena.

"My migraine pills. I had nearly a month's supply. You're only meant to take one a day. Good Lord, if he's taken the lot then he's - "

"If we don't get his stomach pumped in the next few hours he's dead!" Helena finished for him.

"Shit!" Sir John half shouted, half sobbed. Sir Roderic stared at him in horror. "We've got to get him to a doctor," he went on to Sir Roderic.

"There's a physician in Harrington," Sir Roderic said. "He lives about half an hour's ride from here."

"I very much doubt he'd be able to do anything for Sir Despard," Hawthorne answered. "He needs twentieth-century surgery. We'll have to take him back to our time!"

84


	9. Chapter 9

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Nine

Hawthorne turned to Sir Roderic. "Can you show us the way to the summer-house?"

Sir Roderic looked puzzled. "Yes, of course. But why...?"

"Near there is the entrance to the gateway leading back to our own time. Can you take us there?"

"I don't know if I can leave the castle," he replied. "In tales I have heard, a ghost may only haunt the place in which he breathed his last."

"This isn't a tale, this is reality," the Professor answered. "Please, you must show us!"

"I shall try." Sir Roderic looked anxious, almost afraid.

"Good. Now, if you two," he said to Robert and Sir John, "can carry him to the tunnel, Helena and I will bring all our stuff. We'd better not leave anything behind in 1815 in case anything happens while we're gone. Have you got Sir Despard's keys, Sir Roderic?"

Sir Roderic pointed to the door. The key was still in the lock; Sir Despard's pocket-watch dangled on the end of the chain, just above the floor. Professor Hawthorne snatched the key-ring from the door, gathered up the chain and put it in his jacket pocket.

Sir John picked up Sir Despard by the shoulders, whilst Robert put down the sword Anderson the blacksmith had given him and got hold of his legs. "Haven't we got anything we could use as a stretcher?" asked Sir John. "Anything to carry him on?" He looked inquiringly at Sir Roderic. Sir Roderic shook his head.

The Professor gathered up his seventeenth-century costume, now spattered with mud, shoved the empty bottle of pills into a trouser pocket and dropped his reading glasses into a pocket on his waistcoat. "Blast, where's the sword?"

"Sir Despard must have hidden them somewhere," said Helena.

"I've got mine," volunteered Robert. "I mean, the one the blacksmith in the village gave me."

"No, I don't mean we need to be armed," the Professor snapped. "I mean we don't want to leave behind anything that doesn't belong to this time."

"Professor, it's more important that we get Sir Despard to a hospital quickly," Helena said calmly. "If we can't find it now, we can always retrieve it when we bring him back."

"All right," Hawthorne sighed. "But we must take back what we can, just in case. Especially the DAT machine!"

Sir Roderic again looked puzzled. But seeing that no-one appeared willing to explain what a "dat machine" was, he thought it prudent not to ask.

Helena picked up the oil lamp and led the others out of the room, into the long dark passage. Sir John and Robert followed, carrying Sir Despard. Then came Sir Roderic and lastly the Professor, who shut the door behind him. He and Helena went first into Robert's room and collected his costume, then Sir John's and finally Helena's. "Wouldn't it be easier if we changed?" Robert puffed. Sir Despard wasn't a heavy man but currently he was all dead weight.

"No time," replied Hawthorne.

The party made its slow way down the stairs and into the Great Hall. Fortunately there were no servants to be seen. The appearance of the ghost of Sir Roderic had apparently scared them off for the rest of the night. Robert and Sir John nearly dropped Sir Despard more than once as they left the house. There was still no light, the moon and stars smothered by a thick blanket of cloud. "Which way?" Helena asked Sir Roderic.

The ghost pointed and began striding quickly across the grass. "Hey, hold on!" Robert called out.

Sir Roderic slowed to a brisk walk. The others still struggled to keep up. The former army officer had obviously been used to enforced quick marches in his lifetime; he was also getting used to his boots.

A few minutes later they arrived at the summer-house. "So the entrance to your tunnel must be... round about here," Sir Roderic told them. He peered at the ground, trying to find a hole.

"Thank you, Sir Roderic," said Hawthorne. "We'll be back very soon, hopefully within the hour. If you could wait for us to guide us back to the house..."

"Certainly, if you wish it. I say - "

He looked round and round. But they had gone.

For an instant it felt like waking up from a strange dream. They were in the open, on a freezing December night, with barely enough light to see by; then they were in a room, on a warm September night, dazzled by the powerful glare of a fluorescent tube. But we wouldn't be asleep standing up, Helena thought, and anyway, we're still wearing our nineteenth-century clothes. More than that, we've now got an unconscious Sir Despard on our hands. And not a moment to lose.

Dr. Phillips was sitting at a table on the other side of the room. His arms were folded on the table and his head was resting on his arms. He snored softly. She ran over to him. "Stephen!" She spoke quietly but urgently. "Stephen! There's been an emergency!"

He came to. Then he nearly fell off his chair in surprise. "Helena! Sorry, I wasn't expecting you back at this time. What's..." He noticed the costume. He stared at her, and at the Professor, and at Robert, and at Sir John. He stared at Sir Despard. "How come you're dressed like that? And who's this?"

"There's been an emergency!" Helena repeated. "We need to get a doctor, quick!"

"A doctor? Why, what's happened? Who is this?"

"This is Sir Despard Murgatroyd, the twenty-second Baronet, and one of Sir John's ancestors, and if we don't get him to a doctor quickly the Universe could be completely screwed up."

"How come?"

"Look, Stephen," Helena began, "we ended up at Ruddigore Castle alright but in the year 1815, not 1608."

Phillips interrupted, "But how? Professor Hawthorne and I checked the time curve calculations three times!"

"It must be more complex than we originally thought. No-one's to blame. Anyway, because of us being there, someone injured Sir Despard. The injury itself wasn't that serious but he found the Professor's migraine pills. The label told him they were painkillers and of course he didn't know what the effect of an overdose would be. So we've got to get him to a hospital and pump his stomach out quick, or he'll die. We've observed some of the effects of the splits in the space-time continuum at first hand, and basically it means that the many-worlds theory of space-time isn't true. So if Sir Despard dies, it means that Sir John won't have been born, and we'll have a massive paradox on our hands. And the state the space-time continuum is in, it might bring about a total collapse."

Meanwhile Professor Hawthorne had already found the telephone and was summoning an ambulance. "My name? Professor Hawthorne. What, the unconscious man's name? Oh, er... I... I don't know. Thank you. Goodbye." He put down the phone, then started to undress.

"What are you doing, Professor?" queried Phillips in astonishment.

"Making myself look like a twentieth-century university professor. Quick, get changed, everyone! We don't want the ambulance drivers to see us in these clothes!"

Helena ducked behind the screen. The other two men began changing where they were. "But what about Sir Despard?" asked Robert.

"We musn't try changing his clothes in the condition he's in," Helena called out from behind the screen. "You never know, it might be dangerous. If they say anything, we'll have to say he was wearing fancy dress."

"In a science laboratory?" remarked Sir John.

"Of course, the photo shoot!" the Professor exclaimed. The others looked at him, confused. "You remember, I told the theatrical costumiers where we got our costumes from that we were having a photo shoot for the newspapers on 'Astronomy Through The Ages'. Sir Despard could be a nineteenth-century astronomer." He unloaded the pockets of the clothes Sir Despard had provided for him. The bottle of pills he put down on the shelf by the window; his reading glasses he transferred to his own jacket pocket. "Now, what am I going to do with this," he said as he pulled Sir Despard's watch and chain from his nineteenth-century jacket. "We'd better give it back to Sir Despard," he continued. "We don't want it getting lost, and we don't want him to wake up and think that we've robbed him." He fastened the chain to Sir Despard's waistcoat, placing the watch in his left pocket and the key-ring in his right. He looked thoughtfully at the keys on the ring as he did so; most were fairly normal in size but a few were large and clumsy and appeared to be very old. I bet some of the locks have been there since they built the place, he thought.

"But why would he be here at this time of night? And why should we be here at this time for that matter?" Sir John persisted.

"We'll have to say we were doing some work here in the lab late, when we heard a noise coming from somewhere down the corridor. We found Sir Despard in one of the seminar rooms, already unconscious."

"Then we'd better put him in the room where we're supposed to have found him," said Robert. "We're hardly likely to have brought him in here." He picked up Sir Despard's legs again. Sir John grabbed his shoulders. Helena opened the door of the laboratory.

"It's alright, there's no-one around." She ran down the corridor, trying all the doors. "It's no good!" she called back as loudly as she dared. "They're all locked!"

"Are the toilets unlocked?" asked Hawthorne.

Helena retraced her steps and stopped outside the gents', which was about twenty yards from the lab. She pushed the door gingerly. "Yes," she replied.

"Then let's stick him in a cubicle."

"Professor! That's not very dignified!"

"Attempted suicide never is," Hawthorne answered shortly.

Robert and Sir John bundled him into the washroom and manoeuvred him into one of the two cubicles. "I'll say I found him when I went to spend a penny," said Hawthorne.

Suddenly there came a scream from inside the laboratory. It didn't sound like Stephen Phillips' voice, it was too deep. Phillips' head appeared round the door. "Professor! Helena! Come quick!" he hissed.

Hawthorne and Helena dashed back into the lab. Sir Roderic Murgatroyd was standing in the middle of the room, looking all around him, dazed and petrified. Phillips had rushed over to the computer console and was hurriedly shutting down the time field, before anyone else came through. "Why the photon didn't I do this before!" he cursed himself.

"Oh God, here we go again," groaned the Professor, rubbing his eyes.

Sir Roderic swallowed hard, then said in a quavering voice, "Is this the Gate of Heaven or of Hell?"

"Neither," replied Helena. "If you didn't believe us before, Sir Roderic, here's the proof. You're in the Astronomy Building at the University of North Yorkshire, a few miles from York, and it's about three o'clock in the morning on Sunday, September 22nd, 1996."

"Nineteen ninety-six..." he echoed, staring far off into space. He shook himself, turned to Helena and said, "Forgive me, my dear lady, for not believing your story at the first. It was... a most incredible tale."

"You're not joking," Sir John agreed. He and Robert had dashed into the lab only a second behind Helena and the Professor, having dropped Sir Despard somewhat unceremoniously on the toilet. "It shook me up when I arrived here for the first time too."

"But I thought you were of this era," said Sir Roderic, puzzled once more.

"I am," replied Sir John. "But I was visiting the castle on Tuesday and stumbled across these three who were testing their machine. They'd set it to take them there one day ago, and I followed them when they were returning back here and found myself here and it was Wednesday."

A glimmer of understanding played across Sir Roderic's face; the corners of his moustache rose as he smiled. "Ah! So this is the 'dat machine' you referred to, your Grace - Professor Hawthorne, I should say."

"No," said Robert, "this is the DAT machine. It records sounds so you can listen to them afterwards." He held out a small silver box covered with strange dials and buttons to Sir Roderic. "Hey, that's a thought! What are you going to call the time tunnel apparatus?"

"Action stations, everyone," Hawthorne interrupted. "The ambulancemen are here." There was a knock on the door.

"Quick, Sir Roderic," whispered Helena. "They musn't see you dressed like that."

"But I cannot change my attire. I'm a ghost." Dr. Phillips' eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

"Hide in this store room." She opened the door of a little cupboard in which Phillips kept all kinds of laboratory equipment and ushered him inside. She didn't dare try to push him in, though, in case her hand went through him. She still couldn't get used to that. She shut the door on him, then Robert opened the main door of the laboratory to admit the ambulance crew.

George the porter came in first. "Good evening, Professor Hawthorne, Dr. Smith, Dr. Phillips. Er... I understand you phoned for an ambulance, Professor?"

"Yes that's right," Professor Hawthorne answered. "I was going to spend a penny in the toilets down the corridor when I heard a noise like someone had banged their head in one of the cubicles. The door wasn't locked. I called out but there was no reply. I pushed the door open and found this chap sitting there, unconscious." He led the way out of the lab and down the corridor.

The ambulancemen followed him into the toilets. There was Sir Despard, sitting on a toilet, leaning against the wall of the cubicle. He looked very pale.

"And you've no idea who he is?" asked one of the crew, who appeared to be in charge.

"Well, yes and no," Hawthorne replied uncomfortably. "We were having a photo-shoot this afternoon for one of the local papers, something to do with 'Astronomy Through The Ages'. They had us dressed up in period costumes, but they'd also brought one or two of their own people to make up the numbers, I suppose. He was one of the newspaper staff, but I don't know his name. I think he's taken an overdose."

"What makes you think that, sir?"

"Er, well, I found a bottle on the floor, it was empty. Hang on, I left it in the lab..."

The leader of the ambulance crew returned with Hawthorne to the lab while the others lifted Sir Despard onto a stretcher. "Ah, this is it..." The Professor handed the ambulanceman the empty bottle of pills. The ambulanceman thanked him and bade him goodnight, assuring him that they would do everything they could.

"We don't want to let him out of our sight," Helena whispered frantically in the Professor's ear.

"Can we come with you?" Professor Hawthorne said to the ambulanceman as he was about to step through the door. "Only, because I found him, I feel somewhat responsible."

The ambulanceman paused for a second, then responded, "Very good sir. But there will only be enough room in the ambulance for you. If you wish anyone else to accompany you they will have to make their own way."

"Where are you taking him?" inquired Helena.

"York General Infirmary. If you'd like to come with us, then, sir..." He escorted Hawthorne out of the lab.

As they descended in the service lift, the ambulance crew leader studied the pill bottle. "Migramax, five hundred mills, Doctor Mervyn Hawthorne." He looked up at the Professor. "Are these your pills, sir?"

"Er, yes."

"Do you know how he came to be in possession of them?"

"Well, er, I... I had them in my pocket this morning. When we got changed for the photo-shoot I left my clothes in the lab. I suppose he must have gone through my pockets."

"But if he had planned to commit suicide, sir, then he must have known that these pills were there beforehand. Did you mention anything about them to him?"

"No, I didn't. Maybe he just... I don't know..."

"Which paper was the photo-shoot for?"

Hawthorne was becoming very agitated. "I don't know! What does it matter? The important thing is to save his life, isn't it?"

"If we can contact this man's office we can find out who he is." The lift reached the ground. As soon as the doors were open, the crew steered the stretcher out, across the wide ground-floor concourse and into the waiting ambulance. The leader trotted effortlessly behind them. Professor Hawthorne became breathless trying to keep up. He gasped, desperately trying to think of something to say. "Never mind sir," the ambulanceman said. "His clothes are in your laboratory?"

"His clothes?" repeated the Professor, now completely befuddled.

"Yes sir, his ordinary clothes. He should have a banker's card or a driving licence."

"He came dressed like that! At least, he was like that when I met him."

"In that case sir, his personal belongings should be in the clothes he's wearing. Sorry to have troubled you, sir, with these questions, but it does help us if we can find out as much as we can about the patient as soon as we can." He ushered the Professor into the back of the ambulance, then went round to the front and climbed into the passenger seat. The Professor sat down opposite the stretcher on which Sir Despard lay, white-faced and still, an oxygen mask on his face. Another member of the crew sat by Sir Despard's head, watching him intently.

Professor Hawthorne glanced at his watch. It was now a quarter past three. He wondered whether Sir Despard would be awake by midnight tonight and whether he would be well enough to commit his daily crime. He laughed silently. He never thought he would have to help someone actually commit a crime in order to save the Universe. It's all topsy-turvy, he thought. But, he remembered, Sir Despard never was actually the Lord of Ruddigore, it was really his elder brother Sir Ruthven, so he doesn't need to commit a crime at all. Though of course he doesn't know that. Then the Professor wondered whether the curse only applied to a baronet in his own time, or whether "every day" referred to each man's personal frame of reference... Oh hell, there are just too many variables. He rubbed his eyes. I can't think like this at a quarter past three in the morning.

The ambulance had arrived at the hospital. The doors at the back were being opened. The ambulanceman in the back with the Professor bustled him out, then the crew took out the stretcher, slid it onto a trolley and raced into the hospital building. The leader of the crew brought Professor Hawthorne into the waiting room of the infirmary. He explained the situation to a doctor and handed him the pill bottle. Then he spoke more quietly. Hawthorne couldn't hear what he said but the doctor frowned and glanced at him. Not a very nice glance, he thought. His hackles rose. After all, I was the chap who phoned for the ambulance in the first place.

Another of the ambulance crew joined them. He too spoke urgently to his leader and to the doctor, too quietly for Hawthorne to hear. They left the room. Hawthorne began to feel anxious though he couldn't pin down why. A nurse came up to him. He looked up, startled. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked pleasantly.

"What? Oh, yes, yes please."

She poured him a cup from a large pot. "Milk and sugar?"

"Black, two sugars, please."

She stirred two generous spoonfuls of sugar into the steaming liquid and handed the cup to him. He drank it quickly. He hadn't realised how thirsty he'd become. The last drink he'd had was the wine with his dinner, in Sir Despard's banqueting hall, more than seven hours (a hundred and eighty years?) ago. And it was proving an unusually stressful time... He handed the empty cup back. "How is he?" he asked her.

"He's being taken to Intensive Care," she answered. "We'll keep you informed of how he is. Don't worry, he'll be alright," she smiled encouragingly.

Hawthorne sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He felt very, very tired, but his mind was too active to let him sleep. Suddenly he felt someone touch his arm. He started.

It was Helena. Robert was with her. "Oh, hello, Helena, Robert," he said in a feeble voice. "Just catching forty winks. Sir Despard's in Intensive Care, there's no news yet. Where's Sir John?"

"He stayed back at the lab, to keep an eye on Sir Roderic," replied Robert. "Poor old Stephen didn't look like he would have been able to handle him on his own if he'd panicked and done anything silly."

"What do you mean?"

"Well it's all very well for us, going back in time, we know more or less what to expect. At least, we thought we knew what to expect." Robert smiled cynically. "But how would you feel if you were transported to the year 2180 or something without any warning?" He and Helena sat down beside Hawthorne. Hawthorne shrugged in reply. He sat back in his chair again and closed his eyes.

The hours crawled by with no news of Sir Despard's condition. The three academics dozed from time to time, but no-one could really settle. They each went to the lavatory from time to time, more to relieve the boredom than because they needed to. After a while, they all began to feel very hungry.

At half past eight two men approached them. One was the doctor who had taken the details of what had happened when they first arrived at the hospital. The other was a tall man in a long dark raincoat, who looked like a character from a TV police drama series. They both looked very grave. "Professor Hawthorne?" the doctor said.

"Yes?"

"This is Detective Sergeant Meryll, he'd like to have a few words with you if he may."

"What? Oh, certainly." Again the wave of inexplicable panic broke over Professor Hawthorne's head.

"Professor Hawthorne." Meryll's voice was gruff, as if he had been a light tenor but had tried over many years to sound deeper, the better to question criminals. "I understand you were the one who found this gentleman..."

"Yes, that's right." Hawthorne made a mental resolution to limit his replies to one- or two-word answers.

"But you've no idea who he is?"

"Er, no." The policeman looked at him sternly, clearly not satisfied. "He came for the photo-shoot we were doing, of 'Astronomy Through The Ages', but I never found out his name."

"He turned up at this photo-shoot already dressed..."

"Yes."

"But he had no personal identification on him at all. No driver's licence, no bank card, nothing. However..."

"Yes?"

Meryll studied the Professor's face. The man was on edge, and it was obvious that he knew quite a bit more about the sick man than he was letting on... "He had a large collection of old and unusual keys attached to a key-ring on one end of his watch-chain, and in his trouser pockets we found a fair number of old coins, amounting to a total value of three pounds, five shillings and threepence. Now have you any idea," he fixed Hawthorne with an intense gaze, "why he might want to carry old money around with him, and yet have no legal tender currency on him at all?"

"Er, no, I..." the Professor stuttered. The sergeant still held his gaze. "I don't know, maybe he thought he'd get into the part and carry early nineteenth-century money around with him."

"I didn't tell you it was early nineteenth-century, sir, I only said it was old money, pre-decimalisation."

Hawthorne gulped. "But he was dressed in the style of, I don't know, some time about 1800. He must have had the cash to go with the outfit. Er, perhaps he thought he might have to use it for some of the photographs."

"What were you wearing, sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

"For the photo-shoot. What costume were you wearing?"

"Me? Oh, I was in seventeenth-century noble's costume. Dr. Smith here was dressed as a gentlewoman and Mr. Anderson as a young gentleman from the same period."

The sergeant turned to Helena and Robert. "You are...?"

"Oh, er, Doctor Helena Smith."

"Robert Anderson."

"And you were involved in the photo-shoot as well?"

"Yes, er, we were dressed in early seventeenth-century costume as Professor Hawthorne said." Helena made every effort to keep her voice steady and to look at the policeman naturally, without any hint of guilt. The man had such a strong stare, it proved particularly hard.

"It's very odd. No-one at the Porters' Lodge in your department seemed to know anything about it - "

"Ah, well it didn't happen on campus you see - " Helena put in.

"And none of the local papers knew anything about a photo-shoot of astronomers through the ages."

Oh shit, thought Helena. What's going to happen now?

"I understand the pills he took belonged to you, sir?" Meryll continued.

Hawthorne's jaw quivered for a moment. "I explained that to the ambulance driver! I got changed in Dr. Phillips' laboratory and I left my clothes in there, and my migraine pills were in my jacket pocket. He must have gone through my pockets some time during the afternoon."

"Really, sir," answered Meryll drily. "So this unknown gentleman, who you claim was an employee of a local newspaper participating in a photo session which none of the local newspapers knew anything about and which wasn't held on the University campus despite the fact that you all got changed there, decided to commit suicide and stole your migraine pills to carry it out." Again he held the Professor in his vice-like gaze. "I'd appreciate it, Professor Hawthorne, if you would come to the station with me and explain it all clearly."

"But we don't have time!" Hawthorne burst out. "We've got to..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Dr. Smith and I are in the middle of a very important research programme and we have to continue with our experiments."

"On a Sunday?"

"We've just made an important breakthrough in our research into... into observing electromagnetic diffraction effects at point discontinuities in space, and we need to observe what happens over a continuous period. Once we've started, we can't stop!" Blind him with science, Helena thought. I just hope he hasn't got an Upper Second in Maths from Cambridge like Sir John Murgatroyd.

The sergeant looked at her, blinked, then nodded. "And yet you didn't seem to mind interrupting your experiments to accompany the gentleman to hospital even though there was no need for you to do so. Were you making sure that he was alright, or that he wasn't?"

Robert exclaimed, "What the hell is this? You're making it sound as if the Professor tried to murder this bloke. All that happened is that we found him unconscious, it looked like he'd taken the Professor's migraine pills. That's all. It's hardly evidence, is it?"

Meryll gave him a brief supercilious glance, then turned back to face the Professor. "It would be in your best interests, Professor Hawthorne, if you would come to the police station at the earliest opportunity and make a statement then. We'll continue to make other enquiries, of course, but," he drew close to him so that their noses were almost touching, "I must warn you that we are treating this case as... suspicious."

96


	10. Chapter 10

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Ten

The world seemed to be spinning around and around at an incalculable pace. Suggestions of images ebbed and flowed: the oak panels of his room, the paintings in the Great Hall, the moon, trees, the sky. All of a sudden there was a sensation of blinding, painful light. It seemed to penetrate his skin and grip his heart. This is the end, he thought. I have died. But I have no painting. How can I exist in the spirit world? Who will be my successor?

Sir Despard opened his eyes. The blinding light was all about him. Human figures moved around him, but he could make no sense of what they said. They all appeared to be dressed in white. His spirits rose. Maybe I have been allowed into Heaven! Perhaps being the bad Baronet of Ruddigore for only four days was not enough in God's merciful eyes to commit me to an eternity in Hell, or to be trapped in a portrait of myself in the Great Hall. These must be angels. But why would an angel wear spectacles?

"Doctor, he's conscious," one of the white figures said. The voice sounded female. The bespectacled angel bent over him.

"Can you understand me?" A man's voice this time. Sir Despard struggled to focus on the face. It seemed to be a young man, tall, clean-shaven, and wearing odd, square-shaped spectacles, made of something like horn.

"Y - Yes," he gasped.

"Do you know who you are?"

"Yes..."

"What is your name?"

"I am Sir Despard Murgatroyd, twenty-second Baronet of Ruddigore."

The man looked surprised. He wrote something on a tablet he was holding. "Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"Am I in Heaven?"

The man smiled, although without apparent malice. "No, you're not dead, I'm glad to say, though you've had a lucky escape. You're in a recovery ward at York General Infirmary."

"York General Infirmary?" Perhaps I _am_ dead, Sir Despard thought, and this is a demonic deception to mock me. "Don't insult me, sir," he growled. He wanted to speak with as much force and power as he could muster but he still felt very weak. "How could I be in York when but a few hours ago I was in the Great Hall at my home, Ruddigore Castle? Less than a score miles from Penzance?" Or perhaps I'm still asleep, he thought. Lord Hawthorne said he had come from Yorkshire...

The man in white frowned. "You were found unconscious in the Astronomy Building at the University of North Yorkshire. Don't you have any recollection of being there?"

Something flickered in Sir Despard's mind. Before intruders had broken into the Hall and he had attempted to make the Earl's daughter his hostage, Lord Hawthorne had said something about being a professor from a university in North Yorkshire. If only he could remember a little more clearly...

"Do you know what day it is?" the man was asking.

"Of course I know what day it is! Today is Saturday, the second day of December."

The man frowned again. "Do you know the year?"

"Eighteen hundred and fifteen," replied Sir Despard in surprise. Why was this man asking him such foolish questions?

The man turned to a woman standing by him, also dressed in white but with a dark blue belt around her waist. They spoke to each other in soft voices. Then the man turned back to him and said, "Don't worry, Sir Despard, you've had a crack on the head..."

"Yes, I remember," Sir Despard interrupted. "It was the blacksmith. I shall get my revenge."

The man appeared somewhat taken aback. Then he continued, "It's not serious but it'll need a few stitches. You've got mild concussion and you're a bit confused, but your full memory should return in a few hours. Now just lie back and rest." He and the woman walked away, talking softly.

He raised his head, but a slash of pain at the base of his skull prevented him from sitting upright. He turned slowly. There was a small patch of dark red staining the green pillow behind him. He looked around him. He was lying on a strange bed that appeared to be made of metal, though it was not at all uncomfortable. Curtains which stretched from floor to ceiling surrounded him on three sides, isolating him from the rest of the room. From beyond the curtains he could hear voices and other noises, giving him the impression that the room was quite large. Above him was the source of the harsh light: a long glass tube. It seemed to be buzzing quietly. On a chair by the bed he saw his clothes, neatly folded. He looked down at himself. With a shock he realised that apart from a strange, voluminous green shirt which thankfully covered his most modest regions, he was completely naked. A young woman, also dressed in white with a dark blue belt came through the curtain. He blushed. Bad baronet or no, he felt mortified to be so improperly dressed before a lady.

"How are you feeling now?" She spoke with a cheerful and friendly tone. She smiled warmly.

Sir Despard still felt sick and faint, but he was a gentleman born and bred and his breeding took over where his conscious mind faltered. "I feel much better for seeing you, my dear lady."

She looked surprised by his reply but immediately smiled again and continued, "Someone's going to take you down to have a few stitches put in that cut. Don't worry, it won't hurt at all."

A man in a pale blue jacket then entered. He was not tall but thick-set and strong-looking, about forty years of age; he too wore these strange square spectacles. He took hold of the bed and began to manoeuvre it along the floor. Sir Despard panicked momentarily, though he felt powerless to resist. The bed was on a trolley of some kind. The young lady in white drew back the curtains and they set off on their journey.

It proved too painful to raise his head again and look around him, so he lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Fixed to it, every few yards were more of the long glass tubes which cast that powerful, painful light. He shut his eyes.

"You OK down there?" came the voice of the man steering the trolley. The voice was that of an uneducated man; his accent was a thick Yorkshire brogue.

"I beg your pardon?" he responded icily.

"You into amateur dramatics or summat?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Victorian clothes an' everything. You in a play or a musical or anything?"

Sir Despard could make no sense of the man's odd speech. He decided to simply ignore him. One thing troubled him, however. Why had the man in white asked him the date? Presumably to ascertain whether his memory was functioning correctly. It was not unknown for a man to lose his memory after a blow to the head such as he had suffered. The man in white had said he was in an infirmary; could he have been a physician of some kind? That would explain why he was questioning him so. But why had he frowned when he had answered him, as he thought, correctly? Why had he spoken in hushed tones to his assistant? Could he have been unconscious for more than a day? But if he had, surely he should have died under the curse? Another wave of panic surged through his mind. He decided to quiz the man now steering him Heaven knew where.

"Could you tell me the date?"

"What? Oh, sure. Sorry, I thought you'd dropped off again. It's Sunday, the twenty-second of September."

Although the man seemed to have almost a language of his own Sir Despard had no reason to believe he was not telling him the truth. "And what year is it?"

"1996. Are you Rip Van Winkle or summat?"

Again a flicker of memory. Lord Hawthorne and his daughter had said something about coming from the future. About a hundred and eighty years... that would be 1995. Yes, that would fit. It must all be a dream, he thought. I am unconscious after the blacksmith struck me with his staff. I am lying in my bed in my room. I shall wake up soon and Drummond will attend to me...

"Here we are, then," his guide called out cheerfully. "We'll have you patched up in no time."

They passed through a pair of doors into another large room. All kinds of objects which Sir Despard could not identify arrayed the walls. A dark-skinned woman sat at a desk. She approached him. She had the appearance of an Indian, a servant woman. What use would an Indian servant woman be to him in his condition? Remember, it's all a dream.

"Good morning, Sir Despard." She smiled warmly. "I'm Doctor Patel. I'm just going to put a few stitches in the cut on your head. Don't worry, it isn't serious. Now I'm just going to shave the area round the cut, then I'll apply a little local anaesthetic." She took a small metal object from a tray on the desk, raised his head gently from the pillow and began working with the device on the back of his head. He had the sensation of his hair being cut. More than that, there was a sharp sting in his head. Surely he should not feel pain like this if he were dreaming? I'm only imagining I am feeling pain. There is no pain in realit...

"Aaah!" The Indian woman had dabbed his head with a strange wand which felt icy cold. She had touched the most painful spot with it.

"It's just a freezing sensation, it'll soon pass." After a few moments the pain lessened. She then took a needle and thread and began to sew his skin. Although he no longer felt any pain, there was still the sensation of the cord being pulled through his scalp. The greatest sense of fear he had yet experienced since arriving in this strange place gripped him. For that sensation convinced him that he was not dreaming.

"You say your name is Sir Despard Murgatroyd?" the tall man asked him. He was the first person Sir Despard had seen since waking who was not dressed in one of those odd white or pale blue uniforms. He wore a long dark coat, under which was a dark blue suit, not dissimilar from a normal gentleman's attire. He had introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Meryll of the North Yorkshire Constabulary. The title was as meaningless to Sir Despard as everything else that had taken place in the past few hours, but he assumed it to mean that he was someone in authority. He nodded a reply.

"And you claim to live in Ruddigore Castle, a few miles from Penzance. Would that be near the village of Rederring?"

At last, a question that made sense! "Yes, that's right. I am the twenty-second Baronet of Ruddigore."

"Well, sir, I know you may be a bit confused after that crack on the head, but Ruddigore Castle belongs to the National Trust. No-one's lived in it for a hundred years or more." He leaned over and looked at him with an intense gaze. "Tell me sir, do you know a Professor Hawthorne?"

"Lord Hawthorne? He said he was a professor, I recall, just before the blacksmith struck me."

"Can you tell me about him?"

"He introduced himself as the Earl of Malton. He was accompanied by a pretty young lady whom he introduced to me as his daughter, a young man who was his son and the young lady's fiancé, John Murgatroyd who is my kinsman. When they arrived at the castle, they were dressed in old-fashioned costume. They said they had come to a fancy-dress ball arranged by my late uncle, Sir Roderic. My uncle had organised no such ball, he told me."

"He told you?" The man looked at him in surprise. "You just said he was dead."

"He is, but he told me - before he died." If I claim that my uncle's shade had spoken to me, Sir Despard thought, this man will think I am out of my mind.

Meryll gave him another hard stare. "Yes, of course," he said. "What else did they tell you about themselves?"

"They said something about coming from the fut - " Again Sir Despard checked himself. He could not say that they had come from the future. Then, he realised with horror, if this _is_ the future, then I am a man who has been dead for more than a century. A surge of nausea erupted from the pit of his stomach. "Oh, forgive me, sir," he said immediately afterwards as the man snatched a towel from beside the bed and began dabbing frantically at the stain on his trousers. "I do apologise, I - "

"It's quite alright, sir," Meryll replied without any sign of anger. "If you're feeling unwell I can call back later..."

Sir Despard suddenly wanted to keep this official here. He wanted to find out as much as he could about the strange Lord Hawthorne, or Professor Hawthorne, or whoever he was, and his companions. He also wanted to find out where he really was and what had happened to him. "No, no, sir, I should like to continue our conversation," he said.

"All right, sir. You were about to say where they told you they were from?"

"Lord Hawthorne mentioned something about a university in north Yorkshire..." he answered vaguely.

"Yes, Professor Hawthorne is head of the Astronomy Department at the University here. Now, can you tell me what happened to you before you passed out?"

"Passed out? Oh I see, before I lost consciousness. Well, one of Lord Hawthorne's party broke into the house, accompanied by the village blacksmith and his sons. The blacksmith struck me a blow with his cudgel. I ran for my life, they were armed and I was not. I went into Lord Hawthorne's room. The pain in my head was intolerable. By chance I discovered a bottle of medication in the pouch of his Grace's fancy-dress costume. It said it would relieve head pain. I took it, then it was as if the world was spinning all around me. My uncle came into the room..."

"Your uncle?"

"He walked through the door. I mean," Sir Despard spluttered as he realised what he had said, "I must have imagined it. Just before I swooned I told him about the medication, I thought it must have been poison and I was dying..."

"You told who, sir?"

"My uncle, I mean, as I thought, it was all like a dream." Sir Despard's voice rose as he feared the official would conclude he was insane. "Then I awoke in this place."

"So Professor Hawthorne didn't give you the pills?"

"No, sir, I - I took them." A new fear filled his mind; he had just admitted stealing something, and this man, as some kind of representative of the law, could imprison him. "It was only because the pain was so fierce, sir. I would not have taken them otherwise."

"You took the whole bottle?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you realise how dangerous that would be?"

"Dangerous?" Sir Despard was baffled.

"This sort of stuff is lethal if taken in large quantities. The recommended dose of Migramax is one tablet per day. It says so on the label. Didn't you have any idea?"

"No, I did not! I certainly wasn't trying to kill myself, if that is what you're implying - " He stopped; another flash of memory. Lord - Professor - Hawthorne was explaining something about the curse. Something like... refusing to commit one's daily crime was tantamount to attempting suicide, which is itself a crime, and so Uncle Roderic should never have died at all. But there was more to it than that. The young lady, Helena, had said something about travelling back to Sir Rupert's time and preventing the curse from ever being pronounced...

Suddenly he felt he knew what he had to do. He had to find the way back to his own era. But more than that, he had to make sense of the whole affair, and fill in the gaps in his memory. And there was only one place where that could be done...

Professor Hawthorne came round to discover four nearly-empty mugs of coffee by his feet. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. Quarter to twelve. He wasn't much in the mood for lunch, though. His head throbbed ominously. Then he remembered that Sir Despard had used up his entire supply of migraine pills. Then he remembered Sir Despard. "Oh, God, I feel awful," he said aloud. "Any news?"

"Nothing yet, Professor," answered Robert from beside him.

He sat up. Helena and Stephen Phillips were sitting at the computer console, checking figures on a printout with those on the screen. Sir John and Sir Roderic were standing at the window. Sir Roderic appeared to be fascinated by the cars moving across the car park below. "But how can they move without a horse to pull them?" he was asking.

"It's called a car, it's a horseless carriage," Sir John replied. "It's a bit complicated..."

"Helena!" Hawthorne hissed. He beckoned Dr. Smith over to him. He whispered in her ear. "Why is _he_ still here?" He nodded in Sir Roderic's direction.

"Sir Roderic didn't want to go back until he knew Sir Despard would be alright. And Stephen wanted to check over the calculations for the time curve before we set up the field again, to try and work out why we landed in 1815."

"But he shouldn't find out too much about the future!"

"I wouldn't have thought that a ghost who lives in a painting would upset history all that much," Helena smiled.

Phillips looked up from the console screen and said, "Oh, by the way, Professor, I'm as sure as I can be that we'll reach the right time this time. We found the error in the data file that was altered, and we've worked out what effect it would have had on the dimensional parameters. And yes, it works out to some time between one and two o'clock on the afternoon of December the first, 1815."

"What was the error?" asked Hawthorne.

"A zero was altered to an eight in one address field. You know how similar they look on a screen or a printout, it's the easiest thing in the world to miss it."

"I wonder why anyone would want to alter one digit? If someone wanted to mess things up for us, you would think they would have done more damage," the Professor remarked.

"Whoever it was must have thought that a small change would do as much damage without being noticed," replied Helena. "As indeed it did."

There was a knock on the door. Sir Roderic dashed to the cupboard he had hidden in before. Sir John opened the door for him and shut it again when he was inside. "Not that he needs it opening," he remarked under his breath.

Robert opened the main door of the laboratory. Meryll stood in the corridor, accompanied by two uniformed constables. "Good morning, sir," he said to Robert. "Is Professor Hawthorne here?"

"Oh, good morning, Sergeant," Hawthorne said as cheerfully as he could. "Is everything, er, alright?" He gulped.

Meryll and the two policemen strode into the lab. "The gentleman you found, sir, regained consciousness at about nine o'clock this morning. He doesn't seem to have suffered any permanent ill effects, though he is in a very confused state."

"I bet he would be!" Sir John muttered.

"I'm sorry, sir?" Meryll turned on Sir John.

"Oh, er, nothing," he replied quickly. "Sorry."

"He said his name was Sir Despard Murgatroyd, the twenty-second Baronet of Ruddigore. He was under the impression that the date was some time in the year 1815. Other than that, he appears quite coherent. He told me what happened before he became unconscious, and it seems that he took your pills himself, Professor Hawthorne. So you're cleared of attempted murder, at any rate. However..." he looked at each person in the room and then continued, "he said that you, the young lady and two young gentlemen were with him at his home, and that one of your party, along with some others from a local village, made an armed assault upon him."

"Oh, what!" exclaimed Robert.

"It seems an odd story to tell if you had just discovered him in the toilets here and he'd never met you."

"You said he was confused," Robert answered. "I mean, if he thought it was 1815, how could you believe anything he said?"

"It would be difficult, sir, except that he knew Professor Hawthorne's name and quite a bit about him. Have you any explanation for that, sir?" He turned to the Professor, who had turned pale.

"I - I - well, I suppose if he'd come for the photo-shoot he would have been given my name. I mean, he saw me earlier that day when they were taking the photographs, but..."

"However it was, sir, he has made a serious charge against one of your associates, and so I would like you all to come with me to the police station and give your side of the story in full, if you don't mind."

Professor Hawthorne swallowed hard. He looked down at the carpet; his hands gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly that his knuckles went white. Robert stepped forward. "Look, it wasn't anything to do with the Professor. This bloke was keeping us prisoner in his house. I managed to get out and get help. Then when I came back with some people from the nearest village, he threatened to kill Helena. One of the people I came with hit him on the head, it wasn't anything premeditated or anything like that, he just lashed out, it was nothing to do with any of us. Sir Despard ran off, and then when we found him he was unconscious, and the Professor's bottle of pills was empty. And that's about it."

"What were you doing at this man's home, Mr..."

"Anderson, Robert Anderson. Er, well, we..."

Sir John came to Robert's rescue. "They were there at my invitation, Inspector."

"Sergeant, sir, Detective Sergeant Meryll, North Yorkshire Constabulary. And you are...?"

"I'm sorry, I assumed a man of your intelligence and experience would be at least an inspector." He may be a smarmy bastard, thought Robert, but it comes in useful at times. "My name is Sir John Murgatroyd. Thanks to the research of Professor Hawthorne, Dr. Smith and Mr. Anderson here, I discovered a few days ago that I am the present Baronet of Ruddigore. I visited my ancestral home for the first time last Tuesday and straight away fell in love with the place. I decided I would buy it back from the National Trust, if I could. As a mark of gratitude, I invited Professor Hawthorne and his associates to a dinner at the Castle."

"And this chap who calls himself Sir Despard Murgatroyd, Baronet of Ruddigore: how does he fit into the picture?" Meryll stared straight into Sir John's eyes.

Sir John felt very uncomfortable. Everything he had told the sergeant up till now had been true, apart from actually inviting the Professor, Helena and Robert to Ruddigore Castle. And since he had gone with them, and was at one with their aims, and the place was his, or at least it would be in the future, all being well, provided the National Trust agreed to sell it back to him, you could say he had invited them. But now he had to make up something, and this man seemed to be the kind who could see through brick walls. "He's a... relation of mine. I haven't met him all that often, but I think he's been in and out of psychiatric hospitals all his life. We can trace our family tree back to the time of King James the First, you see, and there's supposed to be some legend about a curse on the family which made our ancestors do some pretty gory things. This chap Sir Despard, well, Desmond really, he's sort of become obsessed with our ancestors. I think he can't distinguish reality from fiction..."

Suddenly there came a crash from the store cupboard at the far end of the laboratory. Helena's heart went into her mouth. "Oh, hell, that's torn it," she said to herself.

"Oh, that's just one of my research assistants," Dr. Phillips declared to Meryll. "I asked him to clear out the equipment cupboard..."

"You are Dr. Stephen Phillips, then, sir?"

"Yes, this is my lab."

"And you make your research assistants work on a Sunday?" Phillips was stuck for a reply. "May I...?" Meryll strode over to the cupboard door and opened it quickly. There was Sir Roderic, sprawled over an overturned bookcase. He seemed to have got his sword trapped in something and was struggling to free it.

Meryll stepped backwards in alarm, exclaiming, "What the..." For in one lightning movement Sir Roderic had drawn his sword and had pointed it an inch from the policeman's chest.

Meryll gazed at the man standing before him. A middle-aged man, probably a relation of the man who called himself Sir Despard by the look of his face, dressed as a nineteenth-century soldier, with a very real-looking sword. If he had found one nutcase in Sir Despard, then a much more dangerous one was facing him now.

Helena's mind raced. She didn't want to admit to Sergeant Meryll that she knew who Sir Roderic was and she certainly wasn't going to tell him that he was a ghost from the year 1815. But she could see that Sir Roderic, a man flung into a world where nothing was natural, hadn't a clue what was going on and how he should react, and was acting like a cornered wild animal. In an instant he could run the sergeant through. "Don't worry, he won't harm you," she shouted. It was as much directed at Sir Roderic as at Meryll.

"Are you not armed?" Sir Roderic asked the man in the strange attire before him.

"No, sir," he replied, "so if you'll put that thing down..." His voice remained level but his eyes told Sir Roderic that he was afraid.

Sir Roderic relaxed and smiled, returning his sword to its sheath. Then, as quickly as Sir Roderic had drawn his sword, Meryll lunged forward and tried to grab his arm and pull it behind his back. He would have succeeded, if Sir Roderic had been solid. As it was, he passed right through him, stumbled in surprise and cracked his head on the door of the store cupboard. He staggered back, dazed.

"Fuck me!" one of the constables gasped. Nobody else moved a muscle.

Meryll stared at Sir Roderic, not with his usual commanding expression but in a mixture of shock, amazement and fear. He reached out again, gently this time, to touch the Dragoon officer's white leather glove. It felt real this time. His other hand tried to grasp the sleeve of the bright red tunic. It passed through thin air. He backed away, still staring at the military figure leering at him.

"Professor Hawthorne," he said in a strained counter-tenor, "what's going on?"

"Oh, that?" the Professor said hurriedly. "Don't worry, Sergeant, we're working on a system to project three-dimensional holographic images, with sound, in real time. Dr. Phillips was in the middle of an experiment when you arrived, and he was showing it to us. He was showing us on a Sunday because he doesn't want the university at large to know about it yet. Sir John works for a record company that might be able to give us some financial backing so we thought we'd show him. We didn't have time to switch everything off when you arrived so we just threw it in the cupboard. Sorry if it frightened you."

Hawthorne didn't sound the least bit convincing and sweat was pouring off his forehead like the Niagara Falls in flood. Nevertheless the policeman nodded, much preferring an apparently rational explanation to the idea that the University campus was haunted. "Yes, that's very good. Very, er, lifelike."

Meanwhile Helena had finally succeeded in catching Sir Roderic's eye and was making frantic but discreet signs to him to go back into the cupboard. She noticed that one of the constables was looking at her and began pretending to fish an eyelash out of her eye. Robert also tried to signal to him. At last Sir Roderic caught their drift. With a distinctly audible chuckle, he walked through the cupboard door and disappeared from view. Bloody hell, thought Robert. He's the nineteenth century's answer to Jeremy Beadle.

"Anyway, sir," Sergeant Meryll continued, still flustered, "this accusation by Sir Despard, or whoever he is." Professor Hawthorne silently thanked Sir Roderic for making an appearance; it had put the aggressive sergeant off his stride. "Mr. Anderson admits that you were at this man's house, and that you witnessed the assault on him. Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

The Professor was no longer feeling intimidated by Meryll. He said in an off-hand voice, "Well, I suppose I just didn't want to go through all the rigmarole of making statements and all that. I thought that if I said I'd just found him then I wouldn't need to get involved."

"The man who actually assaulted him, the blacksmith; do you know his name?"

"Thomas Anderson," answered Robert. "Er, no relation," he added quickly.

"And this was at Ruddigore Castle in Cornwall?" Meryll was recovering himself.

"Yes," replied Sir John. Even as he said it, he knew what the sergeant's next question would be.

"So how did he come to be unconscious in one of the toilets here?"

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Hawthorne spoke. "All right, Sergeant, we'd better tell you what we've been doing." Helena looked up sharply but said nothing. Phillips opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. "It's nothing criminal, we've just been doing some experiments in... transporting matter."

"What!" Meryll exclaimed.

"Look, would it help if we gave you a quick demonstration?" Meryll looked perplexed, but nodded. Professor Hawthorne went over to Stephen Phillips and whispered something. Phillips looked at him doubtfully. The Professor scribbled something on a pad. Phillips glanced at it, nodded and sat down behind the computer console. Helena gave the Professor a Look. He returned it with a meaningful expression, the meaning of which completely eluded her. Hawthorne ushered the policemen towards the chairs by the main door of the laboratory. "This'll take about an hour to set up. Can you spare the time?"

"Yes, sir, if this will help with our investigation."

"I don't think we can explain all this business with Sir Despard without showing you. Now, would you like some lunch while you're waiting?"

The two constables looked at their sergeant hopefully. Meryll frowned, then answered, "That's very kind of you sir, thank you."

"Which college is open for lunch today, Robert?"

"Er, Jellicoe College, I think, isn't it Helena?"

"What? Oh yes, that's right."

"Fine," the Professor smiled. "Would you like to have lunch in Jellicoe College? They do an excellent steak and ale pie."

The younger of the constables, a pale, thin man not entirely unlike Sir Despard, brightened. "All right sir," said Meryll. "Wells, you stay here and keep an eye on things." The young constable was crestfallen. "Don't worry, lad, we'll bring you some steak and ale pie," he added with a grin. Helena was amazed; she had begun to think that Meryll was the sort of lugubrious individual who never laughed or smiled. Much like her Economics teacher at school.

"Sir John, Robert, do you fancy some lunch?"

"Don't mind if we do, Professor," replied Robert. "If that's OK...?" He looked at Meryll, who nodded.

"What about...?" Helena began.

Hawthorne cut her short. "You and Stephen will have to set up the demonstration, I'm afraid, Helena. We'll bring you something." The sergeant and the older constable - a broad-shouldered, red-faced man who looked more like a farmer than a policeman - followed him, Robert and Sir John out of the lab.

"You see," Hawthorne explained to them when they returned about forty minutes later, "we've discovered a way to identify point discontinuities in the fabric of curved space and transport solid objects through them instantaneously. It'll be a while before we're ready to publish, and of course in the wrong hands it could be very dangerous, so you'll appreciate that it needs to be kept secret."

"So you can go from here to Sydney in like a couple of seconds?" The young constable, Wells, sounded awe-struck. The other constable handed him a tray with a plastic lid over it. Wells lifted the lid, picked a knife and fork off the tray and tore into the lukewarm meal as if he hadn't eaten for days. Meanwhile Robert gave Helena and Stephen Phillips a tuna sandwich each. Helena looked at it, then at her future husband, in disgust.

"In theory, yes," the Professor answered. "We thought we'd test it by making the trip with Sir John to Ruddigore Castle. When Sir Despard fell ill we thought the best thing to do would be to bring him back here and get help. Rederring's a bit off the beaten track, we thought it might be a while before an ambulance could get there. Anyway, we couldn't have told you that we'd been at Ruddigore Castle that evening because you would never have believed us. We had to make up something about finding him here."

"Anyone fancy a coffee?" asked Helena.

"That's very kind of you, Miss Smith, white, one sugar," replied Meryll.

"Black, no sugar for me," said the older constable.

"Er, is there any tea?" Wells inquired nervously with a mouth full of mashed potato. "Only coffee gives me migraines..." He stopped as he noticed Sergeant Meryll glaring at him.

"I'll get them," said Robert. "You don't need me for this." He scooped up the mugs under the chairs by the door and went out.

By the time the policemen had finished their drinks it was one o'clock. Phillips announced, "The field should be up to strength now, Professor."

"Right, gentlemen. Now if you go over to the window, you should see something interesting."

"Oh, but - " Robert began, but Hawthorne waved him silent.

Meryll and the two constables stood up and walked across the lab. In an instant they had disappeared.

110


	11. Chapter 11

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Eleven

"Quick! Stephen! Shut down the field before they come back through!" Hawthorne commanded. Phillips obeyed; the transmitters dimmed once more.

"Professor! What's happened? Where have you sent them?"

The Professor smiled. "Nowhere dangerous, Robert, you needn't worry. They should be on one of the more remote parts of the island of Iona in Scotland, about four hours in the future. That way the sergeant's mobile phone will be out of range and it'll take them a good few hours for them to find any signs of civilisation again. It gives us a bit of a breathing space."

"But how do you know they're alright?" countered Robert. "Our last trip took us over two hundred years off course."

Phillips replied, "Yes, but that was due to the data file that was tampered with. We've corrected it now. Anyway, we know from when we made the trip to Ruddigore Castle back in time one day that we can calculate short space-time parabolae accurately. They might be a few feet and a few seconds off their intended destination, that's all."

"But how do you know you haven't materialised them at the top of a cliff or something, or in the middle of a rock?" put in Sir John.

"They couldn't appear in the middle of a solid object because they wouldn't be able to make the journey through the tunnel if the other end came out there," Helena explained. "Any more than you could complete a walk from one end of a corridor to the other if a locked door was in your way. Oh, yes, talking of which..." She crossed the room to the door of the store cupboard and opened it. "OK, Sir Roderic, you can come out now, they've gone."

"Thank you, Miss Hawthorne," said Sir Roderic, striding forward.

"My name's Smith really," Helena said, a bit sheepishly. "Dr. Helena Smith. We had to pretend I was the Professor's daughter when we went back to your time, otherwise Sir Rupert - I mean, Sir Despard - might have wondered what we were all doing there..."

" _Doctor_?" queried the Dragoon officer. "A lady doctor? How is it possible?"

Helena made a conscious effort not to get annoyed. "I'm not a doctor of medicine, I'm a doctor of astronomy," she said. "But there are plenty of us who are highly educated in all sorts of things in our time. We're just as capable of learning and doing things as men, you know. We're not just machines for making babies!"

On the outside, Sir Roderic appeared to be somewhat offended by Helena's indignant reply. He frowned, and the ends of his moustache dropped sharply, making him look fiercer than ever. But deep inside, other feelings began to manifest themselves. Here was a maiden who was not only very beautiful to behold, but had intelligence and a will of her own. If only I were alive and solid, he thought. Then I could...

"And as for them appearing at the edge of a cliff," the Professor was saying to Sir John, "I know a little bit about the geography of Iona and I'm pretty sure they should have materialised on a fairly smooth shore. Used to go on holiday up there quite a bit in the Seventies and early Eighties."

"Doesn't sound a very attractive holiday destination to me," Sir John remarked. "Did you go fishing or something?"

"I was known to, but the main reason was to stay at the Abbey. It's sort of a spiritual retreat centre - at least, it was, I don't know if it's still going, haven't felt up to travelling all that way the past few years. People of all sorts of Christian traditions used to go there. Very uplifting. Always came away feeling more alive than before I went. Strengthened my faith and all that."

"I never thought you were the religious type, Professor," said Robert.

"Well, I wouldn't ever want to shove my beliefs down people's throats, but yes, I am what you'd call a 'born-again Christian'. Hate the term, though, sounds like one of those American TV evangelist con-men," he laughed. "Anyway, we've got a few hours' grace. The sergeant said that Sir Despard was basically alright, so let's get down to the Infirmary and pick him up, and then get off to 1608 and get the whole thing sorted out before the police get on our backs again." He went over to Dr. Phillips and spoke quietly. "Stephen, will you be alright on your own with Sir Roderic?"

"Oh, er, yes, fine, Professor. To tell you the truth, he reminds me of my cousin Paul, with the moustache and those boots."

Hawthorne gave him a strange look. Helena asked, "But what about Sir Roderic and Sir Despard?"

"What about them?" said Hawthorne.

"Aren't we going to take them back to their own time?"

"Eventually, yes, of course we are. But the most important thing is to sort out Sir Rupert in 1608. We don't know how long that will take, and remember, while we're back there time will still be passing here, at this end of the tunnel. Sergeant Meryll and his men will re-appear at about five o'clock this afternoon. As I said before, it'll be a while before they find civilisation again and raise the alarm, but I imagine that by about seven o'clock tonight, we may be in trouble again. And there's always the possibility of other police officers arriving on the scene before then, wondering where Meryll has got to. If we delay any more, we may never get the chance to go back to 1608 before the space-time continuum collapses."

"So what are we going to do with Sir Roderic and Sir Despard?" repeated Helena.

The Professor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, we can't leave them here, in case they're discovered... We'll have to take them with us!"

Sir Roderic beamed. "Why, how marvellous!" he roared. "The adventure of a lifetime!"

Helena turned towards him and looked straight into his eyes. She spoke urgently. "Sir Roderic, you've already seen how much of a mess we can get into by interfering with history. We nearly killed poor Sir Despard without any intention to do so. We're taking a massive risk going back to Sir Rupert's time, but it's necessary to stop the Universe from collapsing. We have to be really careful. If you come back with us, there's always the chance you might do something which might - "

"There is always the chance that _you_ may do something unfortunate, Miss Hawthorne - I beg your pardon, Miss Smith," interrupted Sir Roderic. "All the more reason why I should accompany you. And," he went on, stroking his moustache, "I may be of benefit to you. I know the castle's secret ways; I lived there for fifty years. I know Sir Rupert - at least, I know his shade; he haunted me for more than twenty years. And, should we find ourselves in any difficulty, a man who can walk through walls may be of use." He smiled.

Helena paused. She looked at him in his dapper Dragoon uniform, the very model of an English officer and gentleman. He's quite fanciable, she thought. If I had been Hannah Trusty, I don't think I would have left him at the altar. But I'm not Hannah Trusty, she reminded herself, Sir Roderic's dead, and I'm engaged to Robert. She said, "OK, fair enough. When we've got Sir Despard, we'll take you with us back to Sir Rupert's time."

"Let's not waste any more time," said Sir John, opening the door of the laboratory. "Come on!"

"Stephen, can you set up the time field for early in the morning on May the first, 1608? It'll save us having to wait so long for the field to warm up when we get back," the Professor suggested.

Dr. Phillips nodded in reply. The Professor, Helena, Robert and Sir John rushed out of the lab and made their way towards the lifts as fast as the Professor could. "I'll drive," Sir John volunteered as the lift arrived on the ground floor and they began hurrying out of the building. He ushered them towards a gleaming BMW convertible.

Helena sat in the front passenger seat, the Professor and Robert climbed in the back. "You'll have to direct me," said Sir John to Helena.

Helena gave him directions to get on to the A19 to York. "I'll tell you when to turn off when we get there," she said as the car roared off down the road.

Sir John drove very fast, taking bends at breakneck speed. More than once Professor Hawthorne bashed his head against the window as the car careered round another bend. "Obviously our friend here has no trouble committing his daily crime," Robert whispered to Hawthorne. "He drives like a bloody lunatic!"

"I think I'm going to need hospital treatment myself," the Professor groaned.

Within ten minutes they had arrived at the Infirmary. The car park was almost full. Sir John parked badly, blocking another car in. "We'll only be a couple of minutes," he said in reply to Helena's Look. They tore into the hospital.

Helena approached the lady on duty at the reception desk. She said, "Er, hello, we've come to see a patient who was admitted this morning with a cut on his head, Sir Despard Murgatroyd."

The receptionist typed something on the computer keyboard on her desk. "Ah yes, he's now in Ward A3, he should be OK to have visitors. It's down this corridor here on the right."

The three men rushed after Helena as she headed off down the corridor. "Wait for me!" huffed the Professor.

They arrived at the ward entrance. Just inside the main double doors was the ward sister's office. Helena poked her head round the door and said, "Excuse me." The sister looked up from her paperwork. "We've come to see a patient in here, Sir Despard Murgatroyd."

"Oh yes, I think he should be ready to see visitors now. Come with me." She led the little group into the ward itself. "Are you his family?"

"I am," Sir John answered. "He's a sort of cousin."

"Doesn't he have any close family?"

"Er, no, they're all dead," said Helena.

They came to a bed with curtains drawn all around it, hidden from view. The sister drew back the curtain and began, "Sir Despard, there's a relation and some friends to - "

She stopped. Sir Despard wasn't there.

The four time-travellers froze. "Don't worry, he's probably just gone to the loo," the sister reassured them.

Sir John, however, had a strange feeling. "No he hasn't," he said. "He's gone!"

"He can't have left the hospital," the sister replied calmly. "We'll find him for you and let him know you're here." She walked back in the direction of her office and spoke to one of the nurses who was giving another patient a cup of tea. The nurse crossed the ward, passing the anxious quartet. She went out through the double doors at the far end.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," said Sir John to Helena.

They waited by Sir Despard's bed for the nurse to return, becoming more and more agitated as the minutes passed. At last she came back. She went straight to the sister's office. The four time-travellers followed her.

"He's not in the toilets, or the day room, sister," she said.

"Are his clothes still here?" Sir John demanded.

"They should all be in the cabinet by his bed," the sister replied. They returned to the vacant bed. "In here..." She opened the door of the little cabinet by the head of the bed.

The cabinet was empty.

"They _were_ there..." the sister began. Sir John didn't wait for her to finish. He ran out of the ward and back down the corridor towards the hospital entrance. The others followed.

They caught up with him at the reception. He was interrogating the lady at the desk. "Excuse me, but did a tall man who looks a bit like me but with a moustache, dressed in nineteenth-century-type clothes come through here?"

She quickly hid the Jilly Cooper novel she was reading under the desk. She hesitated, then brightened and said, "Oh, yes sir, I remember. Very well-spoken gentleman. Yes, he left about twenty minutes ago."

"Did he say where he intended to go?"

"He asked where the University was. I told him it was quite a long way, he'd be best getting a bus or a taxi."

"Thank you very much." Sir John rejoined his companions. "He's heading for the University," he said. "The woman on reception said he left about twenty minutes ago. If he got a bus, that means he'll be arriving there any minute now. We'd better get back quick!"

"But wait a minute, Sir John!" interrupted Helena. "How could he get on a bus without money - modern money, I mean?"

The Professor sighed, "Well, Sir Despard being Sir Despard..."

"Bloody hell, he'll have robbed someone!" Robert burst out.

"But if he gets caught, he'll be locked up before you can say 'Jack Robinson' and we'll have no chance at all of getting him back to the University and taking him home," Helena said. "We've got to find him, quick!"

They rushed out of the hospital and returned to Sir John's car. A middle-aged man in dark blue overalls and a flat cap was sitting in the car they had blocked in. When Sir John unlocked his driver's door, he got out and shouted, "Oi, you! What the bloody hell d'you think you're playing at - "

"We're very sorry, we're in a real hurry," Helena called out as she climbed into the front passenger seat.

"And nobody else is?" the man whined in a strong Birmingham accent. "I've got to pick up my wife in five minutes from - " The BMW raced off, tyres squealing. "Bloody yuppies," he said to himself. "It isn't as if the Universe is going to end, is it?"

Sir Despard was beginning to enjoy himself. Watching the countryside rush past the large windows of the carriage made him feel almost intoxicated.

It had all been so easy. The young lady at the infirmary's reception had instructed him to "get a number sixteen bus", which, like everything else in this peculiar future world, had mystified him. But on leaving the infirmary he'd discovered something like a large carriage waiting. There had been two signs on its front: one displayed the number sixteen, the other read "University". A queue of people had been entering the carriage by way of a door in its side. He'd joined them. As each person entered, he (or she, for they appeared mostly to be women, despite their somewhat masculine attire) would hand a few coins to a man who, Sir Despard assumed, must be the driver. Then he (or she) would seat himself (or herself) inside the carriage. Sir Despard had been about to do the same when he'd happened to notice the coins in more detail, as the man in front of him paid his fare. "Of course, I shall need some twentieth-century money," he'd said to himself. As the gentleman in front was about to put the rest of his money back into his pocket, Sir Despard had caught him with his elbow, scattering the coins on the floor. "Oh, forgive me, sir, I am most dreadfully sorry," he had said, scooping up the coins and returning them to the man. Two gold coins had just happened to have found their way into his sleeve...

He had followed the example of the others who had entered with him, sitting on a seat a discreet distance from everyone else. Then he'd started. With a hissing sound, the door of the carriage had closed by itself. Even more incredibly, the carriage itself had begun to roar, then to move, although there were no horses to pull it. A horse-less carriage?

It was nearly empty now; aside from Sir Despard himself, there was only a young - man? seated at the back. The youth's clothes appeared to be those of a man, although untidy and torn; the face looked like a man's, but the hair was longer than of any lady Sir Despard had known, and he (she?) wore a ring through his (her?) nose. The determination to return to a sensible place and time burned more fiercely than ever.

"University," called out the driver of the vehicle. The odd-looking youth stood up and moved towards the door. Sir Despard followed him. The carriage slowed and stopped. The door opened. The youth stepped out into the sunshine. Sir Despard paused, marvelling at the door. "Are you getting off or not?" demanded the driver.

Sir Despard turned and glared at him, but said nothing. He stepped down onto a grass verge by the side of the road. The carriage roared again. It clattered off along the smooth grey road at a swift pace, leaving in its wake a foul smell which, in his weakened condition, made him feel nauseous once more. He stared after it. Other contraptions passed this way and that, some larger than the "bus", most smaller. They all made a dreadful noise and a sickening stench, and they all hurtled along so quickly, yet not one was harnessed to a horse. It was a nightmare. It had to be. He rubbed the back of his head. It was beginning to feel sore. He could feel the stitches the Indian woman had put there. He lowered his hand and looked at his fingers; they were smeared with blood. For a moment he feared he was going to faint. He looked around him.

"We'd better keep our eyes peeled, just in case," the Professor said to the others as they turned on to the A19 once more. He meant it as much as a hint to Sir John to drive more sedately as a general instruction. Sir John didn't notice. The Professor demanded, "Sir John, have you got your mobile phone on you?"

"Of course." Sir John pulled a tiny electronic unit out of his jacket pocket.

"May I...?" Hawthorne took the phone from him and tapped in a number.

"Who are you phoning, Professor?" asked Helena.

"The Porters' Lodge in our department," he replied. "To see if anyone answering Sir Despard's description has turned up, asking for me. Oh hello, is that Graham? Hello Graham, it's Professor Hawthorne here. I'm supposed to be meeting a gentleman, but I think we might have got our wires a bit crossed. I've been waiting for him at the coach station in Rougier Street. But now I come to think of it, he might have come to the University and be waiting for me there. Has anyone arrived asking for me? ...Not yet, fair enough. I'm on a mobile phone, can you give me a ring if he turns up?" He read out Sir John's number. "What's he like? He's a tall chap, dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and a big Victorian moustache."

"It's pre-Victorian actually, Professor," Helena put in. "1815 was the time of George the Third."

Hawthorne glared at her. "Thanks, Graham, goodbye. Sir John, how do you turn this thing off?"

Sir John retrieved the phone from the Professor and pressed a button, then put it back into his pocket. Hawthorne said, "He's not turned up at the University yet, so he must be somewhere en route."

"Or totally lost," Robert remarked.

"Or under arrest," added Sir John. He changed down, floored the accelerator and zipped round an elderly Ford Escort. Its driver made a rude gesture through the window. Hawthorne cowered in his seat.

"Hey, that was Stephen's research assistant in that car," said Helena.

"I know," replied Hawthorne. "That's why I hope he didn't see me. Are we nearly there yet?"

"Another couple of minutes, Professor," Helena answered. "No need to panic..."

Sir Roderic was staring through the window of the lab. How different everything looked in the twentieth century! How fascinating! How marvellous! He longed to stroll around and experience it all for himself. Then he remembered, Professor Hawthorne and his party would be returning with Despard within ten minutes or so. Then he thought, it would do no harm to go outside, just for ten minutes. The chance to haunt a whole new world! To terrorise not just one of his own relations (after all, he was quite fond of Despard, though he was hardly officer material) and a few dim-witted servants, but crowds of perfect strangers! Just for ten minutes... Sir Roderic turned and looked at the curious young gentleman in the white coat, seated at a desk on which stood some kind of machine which displayed a flickering succession of pictures, words and numbers. The man was engrossed in the patterns on the box. Sir Roderic edged his way around the walls of the room so as not to attract the man's attention. He reached the door. The white-coated figure had still not noticed him. He gripped the handle, then stopped. Opening the door might make a noise... He released his grip, swallowed nervously, shut his eyes and stepped forward.

He opened his eyes again. He was standing in a long corridor. Fortunately there was no-one around; if anyone had seen him walk through the door, and screamed, it would have raised the alarm and all chance of escape would have been quashed. He strode quickly, guessing the direction he thought he had heard Professor Hawthorne and the physicians take when they had taken young Despard to... to... to somewhere out there. At the end of the corridor was a staircase. He made his way down in a rush - too great a rush; his gigantic boots would not allow such agility. He stumbled, fell, and cried out as he hit the wall at the foot of the flight of stairs. Except that he hit nothing at all.

He opened his eyes again. He was about thirty feet up in the air, and the ground had begun to rush towards him. He screamed. There were people below; they looked up at him and screamed in answer. They scattered in all directions.

It was only a couple of seconds until he hit the grass but Sir Roderic had plenty of time to ponder on the situation. I have just walked through a door made of wood and fallen through a wall made of stone. At least, it looks like stone, but it doesn't quite feel like stone. Is that because they have different kinds of stone in the future, or does it feel different to me merely because I'm dead? Anyway, whatever it was, I have just passed through it, and therefore I shall pass through the surface of the soil in the same way and come to a gentle rest, and I shall come to no harm. As I am a ghost, I cannot be killed, nor suffer pain, and so I have nothing to fear.

The world was snuffed out, just for a second.

"Are you alright, Uncle?" a worried voice drifted down from above Sir Roderic's head. He looked up. It hurt much, yet when the image of the black-garbed man standing by him came into focus, he set his features into a scowl.

"Of course I'm alright," he barked. He stood up, then staggered. Sir Despard tried to catch him and passed straight through. Sir Roderic fell back onto the ground, landing in a highly undignified sitting position. Sir Despard tried again, found the Dragoon officer to be solid this time and helped him to his feet. Sir Roderic's expression mellowed to a gruff half-smile. "Thank you, Despard. The question should be, however, are _you_ alright?"

"No, Uncle, I am not," replied Sir Despard, with a trace of hysteria in his voice. "This place is like the pit of Gehenna. Eternity haunting the castle is better than living here. Let us go home!"

"Oh, pull yourself together, lad. I'm sure one could get used to it in time. However, I agree it isn't much good if I'm falling through walls one moment and hitting the ground hard the next."

"Where is Lord - I mean, Professor Hawthorne and his party?"

"They went to the infirmary to fetch you and bring you here. Then they intend to take us back to..."

A crowd of people had formed around them. All looked at Sir Roderic with concern and confusion. One young man who wore the oddest pair of spectacles Sir Roderic had ever seen said nervously, "Shall we get a doctor, or are you alright?"

Sir Despard's eyes widened in horror. He whispered, "The doctors here are like butchers, Uncle. They dress like butchers, too."

Sir Roderic smiled and said aloud, "I shall not require a doctor, sir. No physician alive could do anything for me." He reached out and passed his hand through the young man's stomach. The man stared, unbelieving, then turned and ran. The others in the crowd followed. Sir Roderic laughed, his loudest, deepest baritone laugh.

"Uncle!" Sir Despard rebuked him. "That was - "

Sir Roderic cut him short. "Oh, stop whining, Despard. If I'm to be a ghost, then at least I can enjoy myself with a little haunting. More fun than frightening you every night, or your brother."

"Ruthven? But he's dead, Uncle, you know that. He died ten years ago - I mean, ten years before our time."

"Did he?" Sir Roderic smiled evilly, stroked his moustache and walked off in the direction of the Astronomy building.

Sir Despard hurried after him. "What do you mean, Uncle? And where are you going?"

"Home, Despard. The device Professor Hawthorne and his companions used to travel to our era is in this building." He walked straight through the glass door. Sir Despard tried to follow him and bashed his face against the glass. He pushed the door open gingerly and glared at his uncle, who was laughing at him.

"Where is this contraption?" he asked, keeping his voice level.

"In a room on one of the upper storeys," Sir Roderic replied. "Now, I fell about _so_ much, so I should guess we need to go up..."

" _There_ you are!" The two Lords of Ruddigore looked round. The strange young man in the white coat was running towards them. "Oh good, you're here too," he added as he spotted Sir Despard. "If you'd like to come back to the lab with me, we'll be ready to take you back in just a few minutes."

The porter approached the little group. "Are these gentlemen with you, Dr. Phillips?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, Graham, they... they're helping us with this photo thing for the local papers, you know, the 'Astronomy Through The Ages' thing." The porter looked blank. "Didn't Professor Hawthorne mention it to you?"

"Er, no, I don't recall... It's just that someone's just come in saying that a man in an old-fashioned army uniform fell from a window a few minutes ago and when people tried to help him he threatened them."

"Oh, I'm sure he was only acting, you know, getting into the character," Phillips blustered. "There wasn't any intention to frighten anyone." Sir Despard caught the glint in Sir Roderic's eye and gripped his arm. It felt solid. Sir Roderic brushed his hand away contemptuously.

The Murgatroyds followed their white-coated chaperone - Doctor Phillips, was it? - into a small cubicle. Doors slid shut behind them. There was a curious sensation of feeling heavier, then lighter, before the doors opened again. Before them stretched the corridor Sir Roderic recognised as the one outside the room in which he had first arrived. "Uncle," Sir Despard whispered as they stepped out of the cubicle and began walking along the corridor, "what did you mean just now about Ruthven? Is he alive?"

Sir Roderic said nothing, but smiled.

"Professor Hawthorne told you something, did he not? Something about the future - our future?"

Sir Roderic still said nothing.

"Please, Uncle," Sir Despard persisted, "what was it?"

Dr. Phillips led them into the room. He went straight to the desk with the picture-box machine on it. He studied its patterns intently, ignoring the Lords of Ruddigore completely. Sir Roderic opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then shrugged. Why not? He'd always preferred Despard to Ruthven anyway. Never as strong, never as clever, never as brave, always pale and ill, but something in his face, something that reminded him of... He said, "Ruthven is alive, and he has adopted an assumed name. That is all I know."

Sir Despard nodded. He looked around the room. Some of the machines looked like those at the infirmary. He wondered what their purposes could be. He crossed the room to take a closer look at one of them and vanished.

Graham the porter shuffled through the papers on his desk. "Now where was that number that Professor Hawthorne gave me," he muttered to himself. Just then the Professor, Helena, Robert and Sir John burst through the door. "Oh, Professor Hawthorne, that gentleman you were supposed to be meeting, he's just arrived. Dr. Phillips has taken him and another man in a costume upstairs."

"Another man in a costume..." echoed Helena. "That'll be Sir Roderic. Oh no, don't say he's been wandering around as well."

"Apparently he frightened some people outside a few minutes ago. He fell from a window and then when they tried to help him he threatened them, that's what I was told."

"Thank you, Graham," Professor Hawthorne said. "We're very sorry if our guests have caused any trouble. They'll be on their way very shortly."

"We hope," Robert added under his breath.

The four time-travellers crossed the concourse to the lift. It seemed to take forever to arrive, and longer to get to the right floor. "Fell from a window?" said Helena. "I hope he's alright."

"Well he can't get killed again, that's for sure," Robert remarked.

At last they arrived at Stephen Phillips' laboratory. They went inside. There was Stephen; there was Sir Roderic; but there was no sign of Sir Despard. The quartet stood silent for a moment. Helena began, "Where - "

Phillips looked up from the computer console, panic in his eyes. "He stepped into the field," he declared.

"Well then, let's get after him. What are we waiting for?" said Sir John.

"No, you don't understand. I started to warm up the field just after you left for the hospital. It won't be up to strength for another twenty-five minutes or so."

"Hey, what does that mean?" asked Robert.

Helena looked at the floor and spoke very quietly. "While the field is still getting up to its full strength, then all sorts of eddies in the space-time continuum can form within it. No-one can tell for certain what can happen, it's entirely governed by the Uncertainty Principle. That's why we've been so careful to avoid stepping into it before it's up to strength."

"So where is he?" Sir John demanded.

The Professor rubbed his eyes and sighed, "Basically, he could be anywhere. Anywhere in the Universe. At any time. We've got no way of telling."

123


	12. Chapter 12

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Twelve

"Anywhere?" Sir John was horrified. "But he could get killed! I mean, if he pops out somewhere in the middle of space, or something..."

"At least that's one thing, we know he's still alive," replied Helena. "As long as _you're_ alive."

"But we've got to find him! He might be falling through the air, or drowning, or anything!"

"It's not likely to be anything as bad as that, Sir John," Helena said. "Most likely he's only travelled a very short distance in space and time, either into the past or the future."

"How do you know?" asked Robert.

"The existence of the discontinuities depends upon quantum theory, which is governed by the Uncertainty Principle. What that means is that any sub-atomic particle may absorb or release energy at any time and jump to another energy level, so its position in space can only be determined by probability theory. Hence the uncertainty."

"So?"

"But large jumps in energy have a low probability, so most jumps will only be small, like one level up or down."

"What's this got to do with Sir Despard?" Sir John interrupted.

"By the same principle, random movements through space-time such as you might get in the eddies created as the field is warming up are most likely to be small."

"How small?"

"I don't know, but I should think no more than about thirty seconds and about two hundred yards."

"Wait a moment!" the deep voice of Sir Roderic cut in. "All this scientific talk is meaningless to a poor primitive soldier from the past. What are you talking about?"

"Probability..." Helena thought for a moment. "Sir Roderic, when you roll a die, you might get any number between one and six, and provided that the die is fair, there is an equal chance of getting any number."

"Yes, I know that."

"If you roll two dice, both of them can give you any number between one and six. But if you add the scores together, the result you're most likely to get is going to be seven, as there are six ways of getting seven with two dice, but only one way of getting two or twelve."

"What of it?"

"The point is that although anything is possible in theory, when you multiply a number of probabilities together, one result becomes more likely than the rest. It's the same with Sir Despard; it's more likely that he would travel a short distance in space and time than a large one."

"So where is he?" Sir John demanded. "If he had gone thirty seconds into the past we'd still see him now; if he'd gone thirty seconds into the future he'd have re-appeared by now. If he's travelled two hundred yards that way he'll be in the corridor," he opened the door and peered out, "and he isn't, and if he's travelled two hundred yards the other way he'll have appeared outside the window and fallen to the ground," he skirted the ring of transmitters and looked out of the window, "and he hasn't done that either. So where the hell is he?"

"There is one other possibility," declared Phillips, looking up from his computer console. His moustache drooped, as if to underline the gravity of his words. "Remember that _our_ discontinuities are not isolated points but form a tunnel between two points in space-time. So eddies which form in the field may be centred on the point at either end."

"So he's gone back to Ruddigore Castle in 1608 after all?" Robert said. "Then what are we worried about?"

"We don't know for certain, Robert, that's the point," answered Helena. "We'll have to wait until the field is up to strength, then go back and see if we can find him."

Professor Hawthorne sat down wearily on one of the chairs by the door. He rubbed his eyes and said, "Well, I suggest that we look round here first before we go back, just in case he's travelled a little bit further than we expect. Robert, Sir John, would you mind checking the building and outside?"

"OK, Professor," replied Robert. He and Sir John moved towards the door, with elaborate care to avoid the time field. They went out.

"Stephen? We may as well check your store cupboard, just in case." Phillips opened the door at the back of the lab. Nothing. "How long will it be before the field is up to strength, now, Stephen?" Hawthorne asked.

"About fifteen minutes, I should say, Professor," Phillips said, peering at the console screen.

"Any chance of a coffee before we go?"

"Would you mind getting them, Stephen?" asked Helena. "Only the Professor and I will have to change."

"Oh, yes, of course. The Senior Common Room kitchen should be open on a Sunday afternoon. Won't be a tick." He left the lab.

"Oh God, I forgot about the costume. Still, can't go back like this, who knows what may happen." Hawthorne hauled himself to his feet. "Now, where are my clothes?"

"On the shelf next to the store cupboard. Can you give me a hand with the dress?" She searched in vain for the screen they had used to change behind earlier. Presumably Stephen had "borrowed" it like half the stuff in his lab and had had to return it before its owner noticed it was missing. She made sure she couldn't be seen from the window and undressed.

Professor Hawthorne turned crimson. "Helena! I mean - well, really!"

"It's alright, Professor, I trust you," she replied breezily. Hawthorne helped her into her seventeenth-century dress, concentrating very hard on the buttons and trying not to look at her. Meanwhile, Sir Roderic stood at the other end of the laboratory. It seemed that Professor Hawthorne and Helena had forgotten he was there. He stared silently at Helena. The sight of her undressed brought back memories of the whorehouses in Penzance and Plymouth, of seducing the maidservants, of those secret fantasies of how things could have been with Nannikin. If I get the chance, he thought...

Helena in her turn helped the Professor into his costume. "Oh, damn," he exclaimed. "Our swords are still in 1815."

"We can always get them when we take Sir Despard and Sir Roderic home afterwards, Professor," said Helena.

"I know, it's just that all noblemen at that time wore them. We're going to look rather odd arriving at another man's house without swords. It'll look more strange than Sir John not having his mobile phone."

Robert and Sir John returned. "No sign, Professor," Robert said. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"If we're going back to 1608, we need to be dressed for it. Hurry up!" Hawthorne ushered them to the end of the laboratory and pushed their seventeenth-century clothes into their hands. As they began to change, Phillips entered the lab awkwardly, holding a tray with five steaming mugs, a bottle of milk and bowl of sugar.

"How much longer, Stephen?" asked Helena.

"About five minutes."

"Which one's mine?"

"They're all the same, put your own milk and sugar in."

"He's a good lad," said Hawthorne to Helena as Phillips sat down at the console again. "I wonder why he always wears that white coat, though..." He spooned two generous helpings of sugar into his coffee, stirred it vigorously and sipped. He wondered how long it would be before he next had the chance to have a drink.

"He does take it off sometimes," Helena replied.

Hawthorne didn't appear to hear her. "Like that Drummond at the guest house in Rederring. Why does he always wear that apron?" He took another sip. "Maybe there's something like the Unified Field Theory to explain it all. The Unified Clothing Theory." He drained his cup and set it down on the floor.

"Well if there is, I hope it can explain why women had to wear things that are so uncomfortable and impractical. I can hardly breathe."

Robert and Sir John finished dressing and joined them, taking care not to cross the field. "Are we all set?" asked Sir John.

"As soon as you've finished your coffees, I think the field should be up to strength," said Helena.

Sir John drank his coffee almost in one gulp. Robert sipped his, blowing on it to cool it. "Stephen!" the Professor called out. "What time exactly have you set us to go back to?"

Phillips looked up. "About eight a.m., I hope. It'll be light quite early, so people will be moving about quite a bit already. I've tried to pick a time when hopefully things won't be too busy and no-one will notice you arrive, yet not so early that your arrival at the house looks strange."

"Why should things be busy?" demanded Robert. "Ruddigore Castle in 1608 is hardly Piccadilly Circus."

"It's Mayday," answered Helena. "There'll be some kind of celebration. Besides, we'll need a few hours to find out exactly where the witch-sentencing is going to take place. We know it happens at midday, but it could be in the grounds of the castle, or it could be on the village green in Rederring. Peter Goodheart's information wasn't specific enough. You've no idea, have you, Sir Roderic?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear," Sir Roderic said. Robert gave him a baleful look. He didn't like the way the Dragoon officer was looking at his fiancée...

"Why do you say 'I hope'?" Sir John asked Phillips.

Phillips spoke quickly and nervously. "You'll arrive round about then and near the right spot, that's for certain. It's just that the longer the path through space-time that you trace, the less accurate we can be. At this sort of distance, you'll land within about half an hour of the right time and about five hundred metres from the right place, give or... or... or take." He fingered his moustache as Sir John frowned at him.

Helena cut in, "OK everyone, let's go." Hawthorne, Helena, Robert, Sir John and Sir Roderic stepped into the field. The laboratory disappeared once more. They were standing on grass; it was daylight and warm. They could see the house in the distance, but of the summer-house there was no sign.

"Keep an eye out for Sir Despard," Helena reminded them. They began walking towards the house. It was nothing like as wet and muddy as it had been when they arrived in 1815. "Oh, heck, that's a thought," she went on, looking down at the mud spattered on her dress. "How are we going to explain this?"

"We'll say what you told Sir Despard, that our carriage got stuck in a bog a few miles away," said Hawthorne.

"But what about Sir Roderic?" put in Sir John. "He's not dirty. And who is he supposed to be?"

"Don't be so deucedly impertinent, lad," Sir Roderic growled. "Don't they teach respect for one's elders and betters in your era?"

"No, I mean who you're supposed to be _in this time_ ," Sir John said condescendingly. "You can't be the twenty-first Baronet of Ruddigore when the first is walking around alive. You won't be born for another hundred and fifty years or so, remember?"

Sir Roderic opened his mouth to speak but failed to think of a suitable reply. His bristling moustache successfully conveyed his annoyance, however.

"You'll have to be Sir John's father, Sir Roderic," said Helena, desperately trying to defuse the situation. "Sir Rupert's grandfather had a younger brother who eloped with the blacksmith's daughter. You'll have to pretend to be their son."

Sir Roderic appeared mortified. "I'm sorry, Sir Roderic," Helena continued, "but everyone will be bound to think you're related to Sir Rupert just from the look of you. And it'll probably help persuade him if his own relatives tell him not to pass sentence on the witch girl." Sir Roderic glowered, but nodded.

He drew himself up to his full height and strode forward. "Follow me," he ordered. Now he was back on his own land, even in the wrong epoch, he felt in command. More memories flooded through his mind, of his final battle against the French. He remembered the young French recruit, injured in the leg, crawling for dear life; the look of terror in the lad's eyes and the gibberings for mercy as he'd brought down his sword; the blood spattered on his tunic and hands. Twin emotions of remorse and lustful pleasure filled him. He shook his head and reminded himself of the task in hand. He drew his sword, hoping that the dramatic pose would not be wasted on his new associates from the twentieth century, and pointed in the direction of Ruddigore Castle.

"Where do you think Sir Despard would have gone?" asked Robert.

"I'd expect he'd go back to the house," answered Helena.

"That's if he's here," Sir John remarked.

"Good God," said Hawthorne suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him, Sir Roderic stopping in mid-stride. "Assuming he _is_ here, I wonder if he knows what year it is? Did you tell him we were going back to Sir Rupert's time, Sir Roderic?"

"No, Professor Hawthorne, I did not," the ghost replied. "If I had, he would never have agreed to come with us. He never was officer material, you know." He set off again at a brisk pace. The others hurried after him.

"But that means he'll get the shock of his life when he does get back to the house. He'll be expecting to arrive back in his own time," said Helena.

"Are you sure he'll go back to the house?" Sir John's voice came from the front of the party; of all the time-travellers, he was finding it easiest to keep up with his ancestor's long military strides. "The last thing he was aware of before coming to our time was being clobbered round the head by that blacksmith chap and then passing out from a drugs overdose. For all he would know, the blacksmith and his sons could still be there, ready to clobber him again."

"But he'll have to go home some time," Helena persisted.

"And it's daylight," said Robert. "He spent some time in our time, so he would assume that time would pass in his own time while he was away. I don't think he'd expect Anderson and his sons to still be there after all this time." How many times can I say the word "time" in one sentence, he thought.

"So we had better find him, before he does anything we might all regret," declared Sir Roderic, increasing his pace.

"Pl - please slow down, Sir Roderic," panted Professor Hawthorne. "I'm not exactly officer material myself, you know."

"Forgive me, Professor, but you said yourself that we have little time to accomplish our mission."

"The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. And remember, as far as Sir Rupert is concerned, I am Lord Hawthorne, the eighth Earl of Malton."

"Of course, your Grace," replied Sir Roderic, laughing.

As they approached the house, they passed numbers of what they took to be farm labourers going this way and that, in twos and threes. They ignored the party of time-travellers, though many gave Sir Roderic strange and suspicious looks. He felt somewhat affronted, but Helena pointed out, "It's your uniform, Sir Roderic. It's totally out of period."

"What will they make of Sir Despard's clothes, I wonder?" said Robert.

The house looked quite different. The imitation Gothic towers had gone; instead it looked an ordinary Tudor mansion, pleasant, homely and not at all frightening. "Of course, this is how it used to be, before I improved it," Sir Roderic stated proudly.

"Yes, you made... quite a job of it," Helena said, avoiding his eye.

They arrived at the front door. Professor Hawthorne knocked. After a few seconds the door opened to reveal a plump, red-faced, middle-aged man, dressed in a linen shirt and a grubby white apron. "I am Lord Hawthorne, the Earl of Malton. I have come with my kinsfolk to visit Sir Rupert Murgatroyd," announced the Professor, in his best Henry V voice. Oh God, he prayed silently, _please_ let us be in the right time this time.

The man looked surprised, but bowed and beckoned them inside. "I shall tell the master of your arrival, your Grace," he replied. "Pray be seated in the Great Hall." He led them through the entrance hall, which was remarkedly empty; no plush furniture as there had been in Sir Despard's time, nor any of the token mediaeval ornaments designed to give Ruddigore Castle an "olde-worlde" feel in and amongst the postcards and telephone kiosk of the 1990s. They entered the Great Hall.

The first thing that struck them, and Sir Roderic most of all, was the absence of any paintings. Except one: Sir Rupert's portrait hung above the double doors at the far end of the hall. "At least we know we're in the right period," whispered Helena to Hawthorne.

"But is it the right day? And what time is it?" he responded.

In place of the suits of armour against the long walls were wooden seats, like short church pews. The servant gestured to Hawthorne and the others to sit, then crossed the hall and went out through the double doors, in search of Sir Rupert.

The time-travellers waited anxiously. The most nervous of all was Sir Roderic; he had been haunted by Sir Rupert's ghost for many years, and of all of his forebears, he had found him the most frightening. At midnight every night of his life as the reigning Baronet, he had knelt before them in the Great Hall. Sir Rupert had never spoken, but his eyes had seared through him, a look of condemnation and disgust and hatred. Now he was in the Great Hall once more, about to speak to his ancestor face to face. He suddenly laughed inwardly at the irony of the position; after all those years in which he, as a mortal, had been tormented by the spirit of his ancestor, he, as a spirit, was about to meet his ancestor alive. The thought caught light in his brain. The prospect was too delicious to surrender. Of course! He could _haunt_ his ancestor. Not only could he frighten him into not cursing the witch, he could also exact revenge for all those years of suffering which Sir Rupert had inflicted upon him. Then he thought, Who shall I say that I am? No-one had ever heard of a man being haunted by a ghost of someone who had not yet been born. His mind raced as he strived to think of a story.

"It's a bit bare, isn't it?" commented Robert. "Doesn't Sir Rupert believe in furniture?"

"I imagine the other rooms have got a bit more in them, Robert," answered Helena. "After all, in both our time and Sir Roderic's time, the Great Hall didn't have an awful lot in it. The main thing was the portraits."

"Yes, but they haven't been painted yet, apart from His Nibs up there. What would he use this place for?"

"Shh," Helena hissed. The doors at the far end were opening again.

Everyone felt a little disappointed when it turned out not to be Sir Rupert Murgatroyd after all. It was another servant, also middle-aged with a ruddy complexion and a large stomach, but more finely dressed, in a chocolate-brown doublet and tight-fitting breeches the same colour. He bowed to the time-travellers and said, "I bid you welcome, your Grace, and your family. My name is Drummond; I am in charge of the servants of the house. Sir Rupert is not here at present, he is in the grounds, seeing to the celebrations of the day. May I be of service to you while you await his return?"

Professor Hawthorne had one of those funny shocks where the rush of adrenalin makes it feel as if the whole Universe has suddenly shifted about five millimetres to the right. Oh, no, not another Drummond, he thought. Please God, don't let him be like the one in our time. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Drummond," he replied. "This is my son, Robert, my daughter, Helena, her betrothed, John Murgatroyd and his father, Roderic, a second cousin of Sir Rupert. We are thirsty after our long journey here. We would be grateful if you would, er, get us something to drink, and if you could tell us what festivities Sir Rupert has planned for today." I don't think I'm getting this seventeenth-century speak quite right, he thought. He desperately tried to remember his Schools' Certificate Shakespeare. He could remember the front page of the examination paper as clear as day: English, 9.30 a.m., Monday June 5th, 1950. But the content eluded him. It was Henry IV, Part One, no, Part Two. How did it go... He suddenly remembered Sir Despard. "Can you tell me, has another man arrived here recently? A tall man, in aspect like Master Murgatroyd," he indicated Sir Roderic, "dressed in black?"

Drummond looked blank. "No, your Grace," he said. "Is he another of your party?"

"Yes, we lost him as we entered the estate. His name is Sir - his name is Despard Murgatroyd," Hawthorne quickly corrected himself, "Roderic's nephew."

Helena demanded, "Drummond, could you send word to Sir Rupert that we are here? We have come to speak to him about a matter of the gravest importance."

"Certainly, Miss Hawthorne. I shall send servants forthwith to find him and inform him." He bowed again and went out.

"We can't get away from that Drummond character," the Professor remarked to Helena.

"Shouldn't we go and find Sir Rupert, Professor?" she whispered. "We may not have much time."

"He could be anywhere in the grounds," he replied. "If we go looking for him we may miss him. When the word gets to him that the Earl of Malton has come to see him, he'll get back here pretty sharpish, I expect."

Meanwhile Sir Roderic had stood up and was pacing up and down the hall, looking up at the ceiling and around the walls. "Profes - I should say, your Grace, should we not search for young Despard? I should hate anything unfortunate to happen to him."

Helena stared at him in surprise. She exclaimed, "I thought you didn't care much for him! You certainly enjoyed frightening him before - in your time, I mean."

"Miss Smith - Helena," said Sir Roderic. Robert looked at him sharply. "'For the good that I would I do not, but the evil which I would not, that I do.' I admit I enjoyed terrifying Despard, but I still loved him - I mean, I still love him. I took care of him and his brother when they were but five years old. They became to me the sons I always wanted. A bad Baronet of Ruddigore is not without a human heart!"

"But you seem to have become especially concerned all of a sudden. I wonder why?" Helena asked.

Drummond returned with cups of a thick brown liquor that tasted of fruit, in the way that a military jet aircraft makes a noise. Sir John was reminded of those cartoons where someone drinks a potion and turns into a Mr. Hyde character. He instinctively glanced at the back of his hands to see if they had begun sprouting hair.

Drummond spoke to Hawthorne as he served the drinks. "The May Day celebrations begin at nine o'clock, your Grace. The fair in the grounds begins at this time. At midday, we have a witch to burn." He chuckled.

"Where will this be?" asked Hawthorne, trying to look as if burning people to death was an activity enjoyed by all nice, well-brought-up people.

"In front of the house, here, your Grace. Sir Rupert will pronounce the sentence himself from the steps."

"Very good," said Hawthorne, hating himself as he said it. "What hour is it now?"

"It is a little before nine o'clock, your Grace. The villagers are pitching their stalls for the fair; Sir Rupert likes to be sure that all conduct themselves well. He shall return to the house shortly afterward. Would you like something to eat while you wait?"

"No, thank you, Drummond," replied Hawthorne. He shuddered as he thought of what mediaeval food would be like. Salmonella, here we come... Drummond bowed again and left the hall through the double doors.

"I don't know how you can drink this stuff," Sir John said to Sir Roderic, who was sipping his drink happily.

"Very good," slurped Sir Roderic. His grey moustache was stained a dark red.

" _I_ don't know how he can drink that stuff either," Helena declared. "He's dead, remember?"

"He's the representation of two alternative realities," said the Professor irritably. "He's both dead and alive at the same time. I thought we'd established that."

Helena gazed at Sir Roderic with a puzzled expression. Sir Roderic noticed her looking at him and returned her gaze with a look she didn't much like. She dropped her eyes and turned away.

At that moment Sir Rupert Murgatroyd rushed into the Great Hall from the entranceway. His face bore many of the now-familiar Murgatroyd features - the silver-grey eyes, the high cheekbones, the heavy brows - but unlike Sir Despard and Sir Roderic, he was clean-shaven. His hair was long, reaching his shoulders. His clothes were dark, but magnificently embroidered with gold and silver. He looked at the time-travellers coldly. With him were two servants, who held a struggling Sir Despard. "Are you Lord Hawthorne?" Sir Rupert demanded, his voice a clear, ringing tenor.

Oh Lord, Hawthorne thought, don't say Sir Despard's gone and upset him already. Lay on a bit of charm, that might put him in a better humour. "Yes, Sir Rupert," he replied, bowing. "It is a great pleasure to meet you. This is my son, Robert, my daughter, Helena, her betrothed, John Murgatroyd and his father, Roderic, your second cousin."

"Is this man one of your companions?"

"Why, yes, this is Despard, Roderic's nephew. He travelled to Rederring with us, but we lost him when we arrived on your estate..."

Sir Rupert gave a signal. More servants streamed out of the entrance hall. They grabbed the Professor, Robert, Helena, Sir John and Sir Roderic, two to each person. They produced coils of rope and tied their hands behind their backs, so tightly that the ropes cut into the skin. "Take them downstairs and lock them up securely," Sir Rupert ordered.

Professor Hawthorne spluttered in confusion, "What's going on? What d'you think you're doing?"

Sir Rupert walked up to him and fixed him with his cold eyes, much like Sergeant Meryll had done at the hospital. "You admit to being companions and relations of this man you call Despard. He is a sorcerer. You and he shall suffer the fate of all who practise the Black Arts. You shall be put to the fire at noon today."

133


	13. Chapter 13

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Thirteen

"But wait!" Professor Hawthorne called out as the servants dragged the time-travellers down a narrow flight of stone steps into the cellar. "What is Despard supposed to have done?"

"He appeared by magic in the midst of a crowd of folk, and caused much panic and confusion," answered Sir Rupert from the top of the stairs. "None but a powerful witch or warlock could perform such a feat. Then he had the devilish audacity to order the people off the grounds as if the estate were his own!" The servants pushed them into a large room, bare and dark, with only a narrow slit near the ceiling for a window. "And pray, do not attempt to use witchcraft to escape," he went on. "No witch has ever escaped from the hand of Sir Rupert Murgatroyd." The servants left the room and locked the door. The sound of their footsteps faded down the passage.

"Oh, _shit_ ," exclaimed Sir John. "What the hell were you up to, Sir Despard?" Tears began streaming down his cheeks.

"What was _I_ up to?" Sir Despard screamed back. "I did nothing! I entered a room in your university with Uncle Roderic and one of your colleagues. The next thing I knew I was back in the grounds of the Castle. There were dozens of people all around, tinkers and so forth, preparing to sell their wares, on _my_ land, without so much as a by-your-leave! When I appeared they panicked. I ordered them to leave, and then I noticed Sir Rupert. I - "

"All right, Sir Despard, we get the idea," sighed Hawthorne. "It's not your fault. You weren't to know we'd set the field for Sir Rupert's time instead of your own. We wanted to get the whole thing sorted out without causing any more trouble." He closed his eyes.

"Listen!" Helena interrupted. There were noises coming from further along the passage.

It was difficult to tell what they were at first, they were so distant. Helena identified them first. "It's a woman screaming!"

"That must be the witch," said Robert.

"Hello! Can you hear me?" Helena shouted as loud as she could.

"It's no good, Helena, she'll never hear you at this distance," Robert declared.

"But if we could get out, and speak to her..."

"If we could free her, then the whole thing would be sorted," said Sir John.

"No." Professor Hawthorne's voice cut through the conversation like a knife.

"What do you mean, Professor?" asked Robert.

Hawthorne wriggled around to try and alleviate the severe cramp that was setting in. He spoke matter-of-factly, as if giving a lecture. "Why do you think we're in this mess in the first place?"

Sir John replied, "Because Sir Despard appeared out of nowhere and frightened the - "

"No, I mean, why did the whole business of the rifts in the space-time continuum happen in the first place? Because the curse _worked_. I mean, if I were to say, 'From now on Sir John Murgatroyd will suffer terrible agonies whenever anyone sneezes,' it wouldn't happen, would it? Words by themselves don't have that kind of power. This witch girl couldn't cause the kind of damage to the Universe that we've observed just by the sound of her voice. Don't you see?" he continued as the others looked at him doubtfully. "There has to be a real Power of Darkness, a real Devil, to give her that power. She must really be a witch!"

Helena retorted, "Oh come on, Professor! Just because we're in a superstitious age doesn't mean we have to think that way. You're a scientist, for God's sake!"

"Exactly, Helena. And I'm trying to reason scientifically. I'm well aware that in this century, people like Sir Rupert went overboard, accusing everyone who did anything they didn't understand of being a witch. And undoubtedly hundreds and thousands of innocent people died as a result. But that doesn't mean that there was no such thing as witchcraft and that everyone who was accused of it was really a poor, innocent, misunderstood individual. This girl is _dangerous_. We know that. We've seen it! Sir Roderic and Sir Despard have experienced it first hand. If we release her, she may still do something terrible."

"But you can't condone what Sir Rupert did - I mean, is going to do," cried Helena. "It'll make you as bad as he is!"

"I'm not condoning it at all," Hawthorne snapped. "I mean we can't just let her out of her cell and assume that everything will be alright. After all, even if she doesn't attempt anything, Sir Rupert may recapture her and burn her at the stake another day. All we'll have done is postpone the curse by a few days. We've got to make sure she doesn't do anything to Sir Rupert ever!"

"How are we going to do that then? We can't get out of our own cell, never mind let this girl out of hers!" Sir John countered.

"Sir Roderic, can you get through the door?" asked Robert.

Sir Roderic crossed the room, struggling with his bonds. He reached the door. He bashed his head against it. "No, I cannot! What kind of door is this?"

"It's not the door, Sir Roderic, it's you," said Helena. "You're not a ghost any more. You're real and solid, like the rest of us. You're totally alive."

"But how - "

"I was wondering earlier on why it was that you could drink that drink, and why you were more concerned about Sir Despard than you had been. It's because we've travelled back to a time before the curse was pronounced. There _is_ no curse yet. There aren't any discontinuities yet. You aren't the bad Baronet of Ruddigore yet!"

"But how are we going to get out of here, if Sir Roderic can't go through the door?" demanded Robert.

Hawthorne suddenly laughed. "I say, Sir Despard! You've got your keys in your pocket, haven't you?"

"Why yes, Professor Hawthorne," replied Sir Despard. "But I hardly think..."

"Some of those keys looked pretty old. I wonder whether you've got one that'll open this door?"

"I hardly think any of my keys will work in a lock such as this," Sir Despard continued. "Why, they would have to be more than two hundred years old!"

"But of course!" roared Sir Roderic. "They are! Despard, you fool, when you inherited that key-ring from me, didn't you try to find the locks that those keys fitted?"

"Er, no, Uncle, it never occurred to me. All the keys to the estate became mine but four days since, when you - when you - "

"Died, Despard." Sir Roderic's moustache bristled.

"And I had more pressing matters to consider. Your funeral, for one."

"But you were always playing down here when you were a boy. While Ruthven was outside climbing trees, you were skulking down here, pretending you were a pirate."

Sir Despard blushed. "Please, Uncle - "

Sir Roderic didn't hear him. "But you could never get into these rooms, because my wine store was here and I kept them locked. You were always pestering me to let you explore, but I never let you have the key. And you mean to say that, when you finally got the key, you never tried it? Well, well!"

"Well, there's only one way to find out," said Helena. "Sir Despard, would you mind...?" Sir Despard walked up behind her. Helena caught hold of his watch-chain and pulled out the key-ring. She winced as the effort of moving her hands made the ropes cut into her wrists even more. She picked one of the large old keys and eventually succeeded in manoeuvring it into the lock. It wouldn't move. She removed it and tried another key. "It's turning!" she announced excitedly, but not too loudly. "But I can't get it to turn all the way round!"

"Let me have a go," said Robert. Helena moved away from the door to make room for him. Robert edged between Sir Despard and the door, the two attached by Sir Despard's watch-chain. He struggled for nearly a minute, until at last the lock turned. "Bingo!" he exclaimed. He pulled the key out of the lock and dropped the ring back into Sir Despard's pocket. "The next thing is, how are we going to get these ropes off?"

"Unfortunately, Sir Rupert took my sword," said Sir Roderic bitterly.

"I've an idea," Robert declared. "It would be too dangerous for us all to try and escape with our hands tied, moving around would be too difficult. Why doesn't one person go and sneak into the kitchens or somewhere, cut their own bonds on a knife or whatever they can find, and then bring it back here and release the rest?"

"I'll go," Sir Roderic volunteered. "I know all the castle's secret ways, remember." Sir Despard opened his mouth to speak but shut it again as his uncle commanded him to be silent with a stern glance. Sir Roderic walked to the door. He paused for a moment, listening for any noise in the passage. "All's quiet," he said.

Robert eased the door open for him, hoping it wouldn't creak. It didn't. "Good luck, Sir Roderic," Helena whispered. Sir Roderic smiled in reply and went out. Robert gently pushed the door shut behind him.

Sir Roderic crept along the passage. It was awkward walking with his hands tied behind his back, but he wasn't suffering as much as the others because he was still wearing his heavy white leather military gauntlets; fortunately Sir Rupert's servants had not removed them when they had bound him. He had tried wriggling his hands out of them, but the ropes were too tight for that. Nevertheless they had protected his wrists from being cut. From within the last room before the end of the passage came the sound of muttering, although he could not make out the words. He held his breath as he edged past the door. If she were to hear him pass and make a noise, it might raise the alarm. He sighed with relief as he reached the end of the passage.

To all intents and purposes it was a dead end. The cellar had been built merely to store food and drink, not as a thoroughfare. But Sir Roderic knew differently - at least, it was different in his own time. He panicked momentarily as the thought crossed his mind that the secret passages he had explored as a boy would not be made until a later period. He pressed his hands against one of the oak panels in the wall and slid it back. A narrow tunnel stretched before him, no more than three feet square, black as pitch, perpendicular to the passage in which he stood. He thanked God silently, then set about wriggling along the tunnel like an enormous worm clad in metal and leather and hessian. This is so undignified, he thought, but our lives and our future depend upon it...

After many minutes of painful crawling he finally reached the other end. The crest of his helmet struck another oak panel. Now for the dangerous part, he thought. He pressed his forehead against the panel and inched it aside. He blinked as he looked out into a sunlit room. His memory had served him well; this was the kitchen. Women were moving about, preparing food for the May Day feast. He waited. He willed them all to leave, just for a moment, just long enough for him to cut his bonds. But the moment never came. He grew frantic as each time one woman left the steamy room, another seemed to appear. At long last the kitchen was empty, save for one servant girl. He writhed out of the hole and moved across the floor. On the table above him was a large knife. He stood up slowly, grasped the handle and tried to slice through the ropes. He lost his grip. The knife clattered onto the table. The girl turned. She stared at Sir Roderic in amazement and fear. She opened her mouth to scream.

"Please don't scream, dear lady," whispered Sir Roderic hurriedly. "I shall not hurt you."

She backed away. "Who are you, sir?" she asked, terrified.

"I am a kinsman of Sir Rupert. I have been falsely imprisoned. Please, cut my bonds." He held his wrists out to her.

She shook her head. She edged towards the door, keeping as far away from him as she could. "Please!" he begged. "Many people's lives are in danger, not only my own. Please help me!"

"You are a sorcerer," she replied. "You must be, to appear thus. You came not through the door."

"I entered through a passage in the wall. See." He gestured towards the hole in the panelling. "I am no sorcerer, nor are any of my companions. Don't surrender me to Sir Rupert, I implore you."

She stopped. "What is your name, child?" asked Sir Roderic.

"My name is Elizabeth Trusty, sir," the servant-girl responded with a curtsey.

Sir Roderic's moustache rose in astonishment. "Trusty! Why - yes, of course, I see the resemblance."

The girl's expression changed from fear to puzzlement. "Resemblance, sir? Whom do I resemble?"

"I - I know a good lady who I believe may be your relative. A finer, gentler woman one would strive to meet." He smiled, recalling all those long, happy summer evenings with Nannikin on the green in Rederring village, just the two of them, watching the sun set.

She no longer appeared to be afraid of him. She asked, "And what is your name, sir?"

"Roderic, Sir - that is, Roderic Murgatroyd, Miss Trusty, your obedient servant." He tried to bow, remembered too late his hands were tied behind his back, lost his balance, stumbled and fell over. Elizabeth laughed. Sir Roderic's blood ran cold; her laugh was just like Nannikin's. He looked up at her from the floor. "Would you untie me? Please?"

She took the knife from the table and sliced through the ropes. "Thank you, oh thank you," he said, staggering to his feet. "Now I must rescue my friends." He took the knife from her, thrust it into his belt and made his way back to the tunnel.

"Master Murgatroyd?" Elizabeth began as he was about to crawl inside the hole.

"Yes, Miss Trusty?"

"They say one may tell a sorcerer from the look in his eyes."

"What of it?"

"Your eyes... I think you are no sorcerer."

"Thank you, Miss Trusty."

"You may have blood on your hands, Master Murgatroyd, but in your spirit you're a saintly man."

Sir Roderic was lost for words. He could feel a tear trickle down his face and soak into his moustache. He turned away and pulled himself into the dark secret passageway. Elizabeth moved the panel back into place behind him.

There was a faint light in the distance, from the far end of the tunnel. He crept along, faster now that he had the use of his hands. He could feel the point of the knife sticking into his leg. As he neared the end of the passage, the pain grew steadily worse. He ignored it, reminding himself of his illustrious military career. The memory of the murder of the young French recruit swamped his thoughts again. He felt sick.

At long last he reached the end. He peered out anxiously, but there was no-one to be seen. He heaved himself out of the tiny space and looked down. Blood poured from a gash in his left leg. He cursed quietly, then hurried back down the cellar passage towards the time-travellers' cell.

He knocked twice, then paused, then knocked twice again. He pushed open the door and limped inside. "What kept you?" demanded Sir John. "You've been more than half an hour!"

Sir Roderic made no reply. Instead he drew the knife from his belt and cut the others' bonds, beginning with Helena's and then the Professor's. As soon as Helena was free she noticed Sir Roderic's leg. She exclaimed, "Oh, look, you're bleeding! That could be quite nasty. We must do something about that."

"All in good time, Miss Smith," responded Sir Roderic, continuing to free the rest of the time-travellers. He tackled Sir John last, out of a fit of annoyance at the young man's blasted impatience.

When they were all free, Helena insisted, "Now let's do something about that cut." She forced him to sit down. "It's a shame it's so dark in here," she complained. The cut didn't look particularly big, but appeared to be fairly deep. "That could be serious if we don't stop the bleeding quickly. Now what can we use for a bandage?"

Professor Hawthorne took off his cloak and laid it at Helena's feet, Sir Walter Raleigh-fashion. She rolled it up to form a long, thick pad, which she tied round and round Sir Roderic's leg. It seemed to staunch the flow of blood effectively enough, but... "Oh nuts, how are we going to hold it in place?" she said.

"We need a pin of some kind," said the Professor. "Ah, just the thing..." Robert handed him the brooch from his cloak. He passed it on to Helena, who pinned together the ends of Sir Roderic's makeshift bandage with it.

"That'll have to do for now," she declared. "We'll patch you up a bit better once we've sorted out Sir Rupert and the witch."

"What are we going to do about her?" asked Robert.

"Well, we can get her out. Sir Despard has the keys," replied Sir John. "But you don't seem to think that's such a good idea, Professor." He gave Hawthorne a cynical look.

Sir Roderic got to his feet, helped by Helena. He said, "If we take her out of her cell, she may make noise, and we would all be discovered." He thought, doesn't this latest Murgatroyd have _any_ military sense?

"That's true," agreed Helena. "Can't we... I wonder, could we set up the time field to come out inside her cell, and take her out that way?"

"I'm not convinced we could be that accurate, Helena," the Professor answered, rubbing his eyes. "The number of problems we've had. Anyway, Stephen said right from the start that the further back we go, the less accurate the measurement becomes. I agree, if we could only get her into the time tunnel, then we could send her back to 1608 again a long way away from here, that would be the best thing. That way she wouldn't interfere with history at all after the time when she would have died, and she can live her life as she pleases."

"You don't think she'll have the power to transport herself back here again? Or curse Sir Rupert or us anyway?" Sir John asked with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Well, it's just a risk we'll have to take," Hawthorne shrugged. "Short of killing her ourselves, I don't see what else we can do. As you said, Sir Rupert will never listen to us now. But how on earth are we going to get her into the tunnel without being spotted?"

"It's quite simple," said Sir Roderic. "Observe. If one wishes to attack an enemy in one place, and maintain the element of surprise, then one stages a diversion in another place."

"What do you mean?" asked Helena.

"I am suggesting that I create a disturbance in another part of the castle, during which you take the witch out of her cell and into the time tunnel."

"But that'd be suicide! You can't!"

"I can and I shall, Miss Smith, unless you can think of another plan."

Helena was stuck for a reply. Finally she said, "But what will you do?"

"I shall do something which will enrage Sir Rupert so greatly that he will forget all about the witch," he replied, smiling wickedly and stroking his moustache.

"Uncle, let me do it," put in Sir Despard. "You're wounded."

"All the more reason why I should do it, Despard. I should slow everyone down as they attempted to reach the tunnel." He frowned at Sir Despard again, though his eyes conveyed a warmth which the others had not seen before in a Baronet of Ruddigore.

"How long have we got?" asked Robert.

"What time is it on your watch, Sir Despard?" demanded Hawthorne.

"Er, ten to one, Professor Hawthorne, but I haven't set it to the correct time here."

"Never mind, we can work it out. Let's see..." He thought frantically for a moment, his lips moving silently.

"It must be about ten o'clock," Helena interposed. "I imagine they'll be building the bonfire pretty soon."

"How can you work out sums in your head so quickly, Helena?" Robert asked her with admiration. "Have you got a pocket calculator in your head?"

She looked at him with a surprised expression, as if to say, You mean everyone can't work things out in their head?

"If they are building the bonfire, it will give us a few more minutes," said Sir Roderic. "The villagers will all be involved, and Sir Rupert will wish to oversee it. Good. Now, I shall go up to one of the upper rooms and watch what happens. In the meantime, you will go to the witch's cell and release her. She is in the last room before the end of the passage. You will then take her out of the house. Go up the stairs here, into the Library and get out through the window. Then turn left and go round the side of the house. When it appears that the crowd are beginning to disperse, I shall come out of hiding and make the diversion. Hopefully they will all rush into the house. When this happens, run to the tunnel."

"But what about you?" Helena asked again.

"I shall wait a few minutes, to give you time to reach the tunnel," he replied. "Then I shall attempt my escape. However, if I do not come back within ten minutes after you arrive in your time, then you may assume that I have been recaptured or have perished."

Helena swallowed hard, determined not to cry and look like the pathetic, wimpish heroines in old swashbuckling movies. She put her arms around him and squeezed.

"Dammit, there must be another way," the Professor said. "We can't just leave you."

Sir Roderic looked up at the tiny window. He seemed unnaturally calm. "We cannot attempt an escape together, Professor Hawthorne. We would be certain to be noticed before we reached the tunnel, and no doubt someone would identify the witch, or even young Despard. One of us must be willing to sacrifice himself, and I am the only one who may. If I have understood your talk about history and the Universe aright, then my death now, alone of us all, will not cause damage. I should have died five days ago, that is, as I have observed time. My life now is an extra blessing. And I would be happy to surrender it saving my family, instead of suffering the shameful sinner's death I suffered before." He turned and moved to the door. "Now I am going upstairs. Go now and release the witch. I hope to see you, in your place and time."

As he was about to open the door, Sir Despard hurried up behind him. "Uncle, I - I'm - I mean - "

Sir Roderic turned again. He smiled at his nephew. The two Murgatroyds embraced. As they did so, Sir Roderic whispered, "I'm sorry, Despard. For all the wrongs I did you. But this will mend everything." Then he slipped out of the room and ran as best as he could with his injured leg along the passage and up the stairs.

The others were too choked to speak. Helena was more determined than ever not to cry. She glanced at the Professor, and was shocked to see him weeping. "Come on, let's do as he says," he said hoarsely, fumbling for something with which to dry his eyes. Sir Despard handed him a beautiful silk handkerchief. The Professor took it gratefully. They left their cell and moved down the passage, in the opposite direction to Sir Roderic.

There was no sound from the room in which the witch was imprisoned. Sir Despard pulled his key-ring out of his waistcoat pocket and selected one of the large old keys at random. He tried it in the lock. It didn't fit. He tried a second one. It didn't fit either. "Hurry up!" whispered Sir John.

Sir Despard began to sweat. He fumbled with the third key. His hands shook as he pushed it into the lock. It fitted and turned. He stood before the door, breathing heavily.

"Come on," urged Sir John. "What are we waiting for?"

Sir Despard nervously opened the door. It was difficult to make out anything clearly in the dim light. At first the time-travellers thought that they must have picked the wrong room, because there didn't appear to be anyone there. Then they spotted a grimy, dishevelled figure, sitting in the far corner of the room. It was a young girl, no more than about sixteen. Her blonde hair was matted against her head with mud. By the look and the smell of her, Helena imagined that she couldn't have had a wash in years. Her clothes were torn, revealing parts of her anatomy that made Sir Despard and the Professor look away instinctively. Helena felt annoyed that her own future husband didn't possess the chivalry to do so as well. The girl appeared to be asleep.

They tiptoed up to her. "What are we going to do now?" asked Robert.

"We'll have to wake her," answered the Professor.

At that moment she opened her eyes, sprang to her feet and made for the door. Sir John caught her arm. She bit his hand, hard. "Oh, _fuck_ ," he yelled, releasing his grip. His hand was bleeding.

She carried on running towards the door. Sir Despard was standing in the doorway; he had hoped that he wouldn't have to get too near to her. But as she approached him, he pushed her back with both hands. She staggered backwards. Helena tried to restrain her, saying, "We won't harm you! We're here to help you!" The girl screamed and threw herself at her, pounding her with her fists. Helena threw her sideways using one of her karate moves. The girl's head hit the wall of the cell. She slumped to the floor, semi-conscious.

"How come she wasn't tied up like we were?" Robert wondered.

"Probably couldn't hold her still long enough," replied Sir John, sucking the cut on his hand.

Helena turned to face her. "We've come to help you," she said, slowly and deliberately. "We're going to take you to a safe place. You won't be harmed." The girl stared up at her. Her eyes conveyed confusion and fear. There was also something else, something unsettling... "Please trust us," Helena went on. "You must come with us." The girl continued to look at Helena strangely.

The Professor noticed the look. It unnerved him. "Let me try, Helena," he whispered. He crouched down and looked the girl in the eye. Her expression hardened. She seemed more afraid, but the overriding sense she communicated was pure hatred. "I was afraid of this," he remarked, mainly to himself.

"What is it, Professor? What's the matter?" Robert asked.

Professor Hawthorne seemed far away, almost in another world. He looked more nervous than ever before. "I've never done this before," he muttered. "Still, there's a first time for everything..." He straightened up, still looking the witch in the eye, then spoke in a loud, clear voice. "In the name of Jesus Christ, I command all the demons within this girl to leave her, and never to enter her again!"

Instantly the girl convulsed and screamed at the top of her voice. Her legs and arms thrashed about in all directions. Helena shouted above the noise, "What's happening, Professor? What have you done?"

"Wait!" Hawthorne commanded. The convulsions continued for about half a minute, then, as suddenly as they had begun, they stopped. The girl appeared to be unconscious.

Helena immediately began examining her. "She seems OK," she declared. "Her breathing and pulse are normal."

"What on earth was that about?" Robert demanded.

"What I was saying earlier," Hawthorne replied. "The Power of Darkness. The Devil. When I looked in her eyes, there was this look of intense hatred. I'd never seen it before, but I was told about it on one of my visits to Iona."

"What?" asked Robert.

"Demon possession. That's what gave her her power. She was possessed."

Sir John was unimpressed. "Yeah, sure, and I'm a werewolf."

The Professor looked down at the young girl. "I don't think she'll pronounce any curses now."

She opened her eyes. She looked puzzled, but not alarmed, as if she had just woken up with the remnants of a dream in her mind which she couldn't quite remember. The look of fear and hatred in her eyes had gone. "What - who - " she gasped.

"We've come to help you," Helena said to her. "We're going to get you out of here." She helped her to her feet and guided her towards the door. Sir Despard took off his coat and put it around her shoulders.

"Is it all clear outside?" asked Sir John.

Robert poked his head round the door. "All clear," he whispered back.

"Then let's go." The party made its way back along the passage.

As they reached the stairs, Helena said, "Sir John, we can't just leave Sir Roderic like this. How about if the Professor and Sir Despard take her back to the tunnel," she indicated the girl, "while you, me and Robert help him?"

"I agree," declared Robert. "I know he's been making eyes at Helena ever since we met him but he's risking his life to help us escape. We owe it to him."

"Yeah, you're right. After all, you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family," Sir John replied with a laugh. "OK, Professor, you, Sir Despard and whatshername - "

"Alice, sir," said the witch-girl.

" - and Alice, you get out through the Library the way Sir Roderic told us. Meanwhile, I expect he'll make his diversion in the Great Hall if he's expecting everyone out there to rush inside to see. It's the only place big enough. We'll go in there as soon as we hear anything happen and get him out of there."

They followed him up the stairs, emerging in the hallway behind the Great Hall. Sir Despard beckoned the Professor and Alice forward. They crossed the hall, looking all around in case anyone came by. Sir John, Helena and Robert stood in front of the double doors leading into the Great Hall, waiting and listening.

Sir Despard slowly opened the Library door and peered round it. "There is no-one here. It is safe," he declared. They ran to the window. Sir Despard tried to open it. It seemed to be stuck. He and the Professor pushed against it with all their might. It swung open, a pane of glass falling out and shattering on the ground as it did so.

"Would they have heard us?" Sir Despard asked the Professor as they clambered through into the open air.

Hawthorne shook his head. "I doubt it, what with all the noise of the fair."

They walked round the corner of the house. They could just see the edge of the crowd, and the huge pile of logs and dry branches for the bonfire, about four hundred yards in front of the house itself. All of a sudden the people in the crowd appeared distracted by something. They moved as one man towards the front entrance, out of sight of the Professor, Sir Despard and Alice.

"Now!" said the Professor. They ran. Most of the villagers had gone into the house, the rest were standing on the steps leading up to the door, looking inside. The Professor held his breath as they emerged from the side of the house; if anyone should turn and look in their direction, they would see them. They headed away from the house, in the direction of the tunnel. The woodpile was between them and the villagers now; it formed an effective screen.

They ran for a few minutes. The Professor could feel a stitch forming in his side. Then he remembered that the summer-house, which had always been their landmark for the entrance to the tunnel, had not yet been built. He blundered around where he thought it ought to be and exclaimed, "It must be here somewhere!"

"Look!" cried Alice. About twenty yards to their right a hare, frightened by their approach, had scurried away. Suddenly it changed direction, its fur sticking up on end. "There is magic in the air!" she continued, terrified. "The Devil has returned to reclaim me!"

"He won't touch you ever again," Hawthorne reassured her. "No, that's our way out of here!" He took her arm and made for the spot the hare had run from. Sir Despard followed. Then they were somewhere, somewhen else.

146


	14. Chapter 14

The Ruddigore Dichotomy

Chapter Fourteen

Sir Roderic looked down from his hiding-place, on a tiny ledge just below the ceiling of the Great Hall. He had discovered it when he was a boy; it had always been one of his favourite places to hide. Partly because it had been out of Drummond's reach, when he had performed some spectacularly wicked prank, but mainly because it had afforded him an unrivalled view of the hall itself and outside, through the arch at the other end. It had been murder climbing up to it, with the gash in his leg. As he had hauled himself onto it, he had caught the bandage against the corner of the ledge and pulled it askew, and now his leg was bleeding again. It didn't matter. He was expecting to die, and even looking forward to it. He was sacrificing himself for his family and for the whole world. Surely God would forgive him now, even for being the bad Baronet of Ruddigore.

He took the knife out of the side of his boot. He gazed at it, then at its intended victim beneath him. After this, he thought, I shall be really free. Every Baronet before and after me shall be free from him.

Outside, the execution pyre was built, ready for its victim, and the attention of the villagers was beginning to wander. This is it, he thought. He took a deep breath, then bellowed with all his might, "Sir Rupert Murgatroyd!"

Servants entered the hall from all directions. He shouted again, "Sir Rupert Murgatroyd!" They looked around and around, trying to determine the source of the voice. Sir Roderic knew from his boyhood games that it would take them a long time to realise he was above them. "Sir Rupert Murgatroyd! I defy you!"

Sir Rupert himself, accompanied by his butler Drummond, marched through the arch into the hall. The villagers began filtering in behind them, a few at first then as a steady flow, keen to discover what was the matter with the Lord of Ruddigore. Sir Roderic edged along the ledge, then jumped. He landed awkwardly on the beam above the double doors, wavered, then steadied. He turned to face his ancestor. His eyes shone.

"Sir Rupert Murgatroyd! I defy you!" he repeated, laughing his deepest, loudest laugh. He raised the knife. A ray of sunlight came through a window in the entrance hall and caught the blade. It glittered for a second, then Sir Roderic slashed down.

The blade sliced through Sir Rupert's chest. Sir Roderic stabbed again, and again. Sir Rupert himself stared up at him, horrified. He cried, "Stop him! Shoot him down, if you must!"

The painting was now little more than a mass of coloured ribbons. Sir Roderic kept hacking away at it, laughing hysterically. Suddenly he lost his balance and fell, just as Sir John, Helena and Robert burst through the double doors. He landed on top of Robert. The knife slipped out of his grasp and skidded across the floor, out of the time-travellers' reach. The crowd, with Sir Rupert at its head, surged further into the hall. Sir Roderic, dizzy with the sense of losing blood, had passed out. Sir John and Robert picked him up, then they and Helena backed through the doors.

"As I told you, no-one escapes from the hand of Sir Rupert Murgatroyd. You shall burn at noon, you and your companions." Sir Rupert strode towards them.

The time-travellers looked this way and that, for any way of escape. "It's no good," sighed Robert. "We'll never get away from them with Sir Roderic like this." They continued to back away, but the crowd surrounded them and hemmed them in.

Sir Roderic opened his eyes. He looked up at Helena and smiled weakly. "You shouldn't have stayed. But thank you." He passed out again.

"Bind them securely," Sir Rupert commanded his servants. "Then take them back to the cellar and lock them in. And guard them well!"

Some of the burliest servants grabbed hold of the time-travellers roughly and tied them, hands and feet this time. Then they picked them up and carried them down the stairs. The villagers jeered and laughed. Suddenly someone standing near the arch shouted above the noise, "My lord! The others are outside! And the witch from the village, too! They're escaping!"

The crowd moved back towards the entrance. A few of the men of the village began to give chase to the three running figures. The fastest had covered half the distance to them when he stopped and cried out. They had disappeared. He ran back to the house and reported what had happened.

Sir Rupert cursed quietly, then said aloud, "It matters little. We still have four children of Beelzebub to burn." He descended the stairs into the cellar and spoke to the servants who were standing guard outside the time-travellers' cell. "If any one of these escapes again," he told them, "you will join them!" He swung round and stormed back up the stairs.

"That's that, then," said Helena, her voice shaking. "Sorry."

"What do you mean, sorry?" asked Sir John.

"It was me who suggested staying to rescue Sir Roderic," she replied. Sir Roderic was lying unconscious on the floor.

"You were right, though," said Robert. "We couldn't just have left him."

"At least he may be lucky enough to bleed to death before they put us on the bonfire," Helena sighed.

At a little before noon, the cell was unlocked once more and Sir Rupert's servants carried the four time-travellers out. As they were brought out of the house into the open air, an enormous cheer rose from the crowd, a safe distance away from the impending fire and smoke. The servants took more rope and tied the prisoners to a huge wooden stake, which looked like the trunk of an ancient oak tree. Then Sir Rupert appeared, at the top of the steps before the entrance to the house of the Lord of Ruddigore. His voice rang out above the shouts and jeers of the crowd. They fell silent as he began speaking.

"These are persons guilty of practising witchcraft and consorting with the Devil," he announced. "The penalty for such crimes is death. They shall be put to the fire, and their Master shall reclaim them!"

The crowd cheered louder than ever. Sir Rupert came down the steps, giving a signal. Two servants stepped forward with flaming torches. They lit the wood at the base of the stake. In just a few seconds the bonfire had caught light, and smoke and flames were all around the time-travellers. They began coughing and choking, except for poor Sir Roderic, who was still breathing, but very shallowly.

The next thing Helena, Robert and Sir John knew the villagers had stopped cheering and begun screaming. They couldn't see anything clearly because their eyes were streaming. But before they had time to wonder what was happening, they became aware that the fire was being put out. Then their ropes were being cut, with what sounded like an electric saw. As soon as they were free, they were dragged forward by a strange white figure. Once they were clear of the smoke they saw it was a man in fireproof overalls, with heavy black leather boots and gauntlets. His face was covered by a fireman's breathing mask, like a World War Two gas mask. Another suited and masked figure was struggling to lift the inert and heavy Sir Roderic. The first man tapped Sir John on the shoulder and pointed towards his companion. Sir John hesitated for a second, then dashed back through the smoke and joined the second man. He picked up Sir Roderic by the shoulders as the white-clad man grabbed his legs. They followed the first man, Helena and Robert away from the remains of the fire.

The villagers were running in all directions, but everyone was determined to get as far away as they could from the faceless white demons who had appeared, it seemed, from the midst of the flames and smoke. Only Sir Rupert himself stood perfectly still. His face was white, his eyes were wide and staring, his mouth was open, but he made no sound. The first of their rescuers led the time-travellers in the direction of the house, towards Sir Rupert. He backed away up the steps, still transfixed by the horrible apparitions before him.

Then they were somewhere, somewhen else.

The smoke had gone. The noise of panic had gone. They were back in Stephen Phillips' laboratory. The faint hum of the fluorescent lighting was like music to the time-travellers' ears.

The first white-clad figure pulled off his mask. "Well, that's got you back alright. Hopefully the ambulance will be here to take Sir Roderic to the hospital any minute." The Professor removed his gauntlets and boots and began climbing out of his fireproof suit.

Meanwhile the other man hurried over to the computer console, tore off his mask and gauntlets and shut down the time field. "We don't want any more Murgatroyds coming to visit," Phillips declared with a grin, his moustache rising on one side and drooping on the other. Once he was satisfied with the figures on the screen, he too peeled off his protective clothing. For once he wasn't wearing his white coat.

Helena looked around the lab. It wasn't the same. The computer Dr. Phillips was using was a smarter model, the screen larger and flatter. The machine with which she was familiar stood beside it, switched off. Different junk stood on the shelf by the window. "Hey, what's happened in here?"

"Where's Sir Despard and that girl, whatsername, Alice?" Sir John interrupted.

"I took them back to 1996 when you went to rescue Sir Roderic, of course," Hawthorne replied gruffly. "Just as we planned."

"So where are they?"

"In 1996." Hawthorne looked out of the window to see if the ambulance had arrived yet.

"Yes, so where _are_ they?" Sir John said again.

"They'll be waiting for you in here in 1996." Hawthorne turned to face them. Helena looked at him curiously.

"Where are we then?" she asked.

"Same place, Helena," answered Phillips. "Different time, that's all. It's Saturday, 24th April, 1999 today, and it's about a quarter to eleven in the morning."

"But why - " she began.

Phillips explained, "We couldn't go back to rescue you until we could set the destination time and place much more accurately. The old set-up meant we could have been up to half an hour and about five hundred metres off our intended spot, but over the past couple of years we've refined the system and now we can pinpoint a time and place within two millimetres and a twentieth of a second as far back as 1608. If we'd tried before, we might have totally messed up history all over again. Sorry."

Helena was amazed. "No, don't apologise," she spluttered. "It's fine..."

"Here comes the ambulance," said the Professor, looking out of the window once more. "Once he's gone we'll take you back to 1996."

"Hadn't we better follow him and keep an eye on him the whole time this time?" suggested Helena. "Just in case he decides to go walkabout the way Sir Despard did?"

"Don't worry, Helena'll take care of him," the Professor replied. "No, not you," he continued as she began to say something, "the other Helena." She looked totally confused. Robert and Sir John did likewise. Then another Dr. Helena Smith entered the lab.

The new Helena smiled reassuringly at her opposite number. "It is a bit of a shock meeting your older self for the first time," she said. "It's nothing to worry about."

The younger Helena stared at her other self for the best part of a minute before answering, "Er, no, I suppose not..."

There was a knock on the door. The older Helena opened it and admitted George the porter with the ambulance crew. She showed them Sir Roderic and told them that he was a friend of hers who was an amateur opera singer who had popped in to see her before the matinee performance of "Die Fledermaus" at one of the theatres in town but she couldn't remember which, and had injured himself on his sword as he was showing her his moves in a stage battle. "Here we go again," whispered Robert to the younger Helena as the crew gently lifted Sir Roderic onto the stretcher and took him away. The older Helena followed them.

Dr. Phillips began setting up the time field once more, for Sunday, 22nd September, 1996. "We'll take you back now, then when Sir Roderic's fit enough we'll send him back to join you. Then you can take both him and Sir Despard back to 1815 together."

"Will he be alright?" asked Helena anxiously.

"Don't worry," replied Professor Hawthorne. "He will be alright."

Within ten minutes Phillips announced, "Right, the field should be up to strength. You'll appear in the corridor outside the lab, a few seconds after the Professor arrived back with Sir Despard and the witch. You'll have to go in and switch off the field to prevent anyone else from following them through."

Helena looked at him nonplussed. "It can't be up to strength already. You only set it going less than a quarter of an hour ago."

"All part of the improvements, Helena," he replied with his customary enthusiasm. "See you back there."

Still looking doubtfully at him, Helena stepped into the ring of transmitters. Robert and Sir John followed her. They found themselves in the corridor, as Dr. Phillips had said. They entered the lab.

"It's alright, we're here," Helena called out. "Switch off the field, Stephen!"

Phillips, in his white coat, was sitting at the computer console - the familiar one. He looked up, startled. "How did you get back? You didn't - "

"We were rescued by you. From the future, I mean," she added as both Phillips and Hawthorne stared at her, completely bewildered. "Shut the field down before anyone follows you through!"

Phillips obeyed. "But what about Sir Roderic?" asked the Professor.

"He's alright, or at least, he will be alright, according to you, Professor," Robert answered. "He's been taken to hospital in 1999. When he's fit, someone'll bring him back here..." He broke off as the laboratory door opened. The older Helena led Sir Roderic, apparently fully recovered, into the room.

Sir Roderic gasped as he saw the two Helenas. So did the Professor, and Stephen Phillips, and Sir Despard. "I - I didn't realise you had a twin sister, Helena," Sir Roderic began.

"She'll explain it all to you, Sir Roderic," the older Helena said, indicating her younger self. She retreated into the corridor again, shutting the door behind her.

"You don't have a twin sister, Helena," said Hawthorne. "What the Devil is going on?"

"Er, that's, that's me," Helena replied awkwardly. "From three years in the future. You see, you and Stephen came back to rescue us from 1999 and took us back there, then got Sir Roderic into hospital, then brought us back here."

"It didn't take you long to get fixed up," Robert remarked to Sir Roderic.

"He was probably in for days, Robert," Helena reminded him. "They - we - just must have set the destination time when we came to take him back here for only a few seconds after we arrived. If you follow me."

He shook his head. "Sort of. I think."

"But why did we come back from 1999?" asked Phillips. "I mean, why did we wait so long?"

"Apparently by then we'll have refined the time field so that we can go back to the right place and time much more precisely. You said yourself that we could have been up to half an hour out before." Helena sat down in one of the chairs by the door. I'll just sit down for a minute, she thought, then I'll get out of this bloody dress once and for all.

Alice was still clinging to Professor Hawthorne's arm. "Where am I, my lord?" she whispered.

"Don't be afraid, my dear," he replied. "You've been brought forward in time. This is the twentieth century. We are in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-six. We came back to your era to prevent you from - I mean, to release you from the power of the Devil." It might not be very tactful to tell her what she would have done, he thought.

Meanwhile Sir Despard had run over to Sir Roderic and flung his arms around him, unashamedly weeping for joy. "Thank God you're safe, Uncle!" he cried.

"It's also thanks to our friends here for their courage in coming back for me," answered Sir Roderic.

"We should thank you," said the Professor. "I mean, if it hadn't have been for you, we would never have succeeded in... in rescuing her." He smiled at Alice, then went on, "We'd never have escaped without your knowledge of the castle and your..." he blushed and stammered, "your bravery..."

He was interrupted by a sudden sharp laugh from Dr. Phillips. "Of course! Why didn't I think of it before?"

"Think of what, Stephen?" asked Helena.

"Who it was who altered the data file. You remember I said that the only person logged on at the time was me?"

"Yes," said Helena.

"Well it _was_ me!"

Professor Hawthorne turned on him with a face like thunder. "You mean you did it after all and you lied..."

"No, I mean it _will_ be me," Phillips declared excitedly. He stood up and began moving around the room. "Don't you see? If you needed to pick up Sir Roderic and Sir Despard in order for the mission to succeed, then you needed someone to have altered the data file to _make_ you go back to 1815 to pick them up. It wasn't sabotage at all!"

"You've lost me," said Sir John.

"I'm going to go back to the night the data file got changed and change it myself, in order that your first big journey through time lands you in 1815, so that you can pick up Sir Roderic and Sir Despard and take them with you to 1608." Phillips sat down again at the console and started typing away, to set up the time field once more.

"And I'm going to get changed," said Helena, "before I asphyxiate."

"Once Stephen's done this, we'll take you home," Hawthorne told Sir Roderic and Sir Despard. "It'll be about two hours before we're ready, though. Oh, and don't step into the middle of the room before then, or goodness knows what will happen."

"What about the girl?" asked Sir Roderic, glancing at Alice, who still had Sir Despard's coat around her.

"We can't send her back to Sir Rupert's time," Helena called out from the far end of the laboratory.

Sir Despard looked at his twentieth-century friends and said, "I mean no offence, but I must say that your world is a fearful place - for one unaccustomed to it, I mean - and it would be more than she could bear to stay here."

"Well, we can't take her back to Ruddigore in her own time, they'll lynch her," replied Hawthorne. "I had thought of taking her back to her own time but a long way away, so she can start a new life." He searched the room for his twentieth-century clothes.

Alice looked alarmed. "But where can I go, my lord?"

Sir Despard said, "I have it! Come back to Ruddigore Castle with me and my uncle, to our era." She appeared confused. He went on, "We are from the year eighteen hundred and fifteen. The world then is not so different from that in which you were born, yet no-one will accuse you of witchcraft. You need have no fears for your life."

"If you wish, you may take a position in service in the house," added Sir Roderic. "We shall feed you and clothe you, and pay you well." Alice's eyes widened with wonder and excitement and gratitude. No-one had ever shown her such charity; all the more marvellous that it should come from the kinsfolk of the hated Sir Rupert Murgatroyd. She nodded eagerly.

"OK then, if that's what you want, Alice," said Professor Hawthorne. "Er, you never told us your surname. Your family name, I mean."

"Hawthorne, my lord. My name is Alice Hawthorne."

At length Phillips announced that the field was set up for him to go back and edit the data file. "Won't be a tick," he said. He stepped into the middle of the room and vanished.

Alice cried out in fear. Sir Roderic was fascinated. "How _does_ this device work?" he wondered, striding forward to examine the ring of transmitters more closely.

"No, Sir Roderic, don't! You'll - " But Helena was too late. Sir Roderic had disappeared.

About five minutes later he and Dr. Phillips re-appeared. "You clumsy great idiot," Phillips yelled at him, crossing to the console and switching off the field, "you could have ruined everything. If you'd knocked over any of the equipment you might have prevented us from setting up the time field in the first place and we would have had a Möbius loop paradox on our hands. Why can't you watch where you place those bloody great boots of yours?"

Sir Roderic almost turned purple with rage. "How _dare_ you speak to me in that manner, sir! If I had not had my helmet and my cuirass to protect me, I might have suffered serious injury! Your room was a disgrace! With so many..." he struggled to think of a suitable word, " _objects_ on the floor, small wonder that I should trip and fall."

"But you shouldn't have come through the time field in the first place..."

"Oh, give it a rest, you two," interposed Helena. "Did you change the data file OK, Stephen?"

"Yes."

"Then let's set up the field for 1815 and take Sir Roderic and Sir Despard home."

Sir John asked, "Hey, what about those policemen?"

Professor Hawthorne's face fell. "Oh Lord, I forgot about them. Well, now that we've sorted the whole mess out, then as soon as we've got our Baronets of Ruddigore home I suggest we go and rescue them, from the moment they arrived on Iona. We don't want to end up in any more trouble..."

The little parish church in Rederring village was packed. Helena remembered Sir Roderic's funeral, on a cold afternoon the previous December, when it had been nearly empty, and deathly quiet. Now there was a buzz of excited whispering almost drowning the slightly off-key but still cheerful organ-playing. She paused for a moment outside the door. She hadn't expected to be this nervous.

Professor Hawthorne smiled encouragingly. "Ready, Dr. Smith?" She smiled back and nodded. "Then let's go." They walked slowly into the church.

The organist immediately struck up a wedding march. Robert looked round, sweating profusely, then turned back to face the altar. "Have you got the ring?" he hissed at Sir John standing beside him.

Sir John fished around in the pocket of his waistcoat for a moment. He nodded. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of Stephen Phillips, minus white coat, out of the corner of his eye. He looked unusually smart; all his clothes seemed to fit him properly, and even his moustache was neat and straight. Beside him was Despard, also dressed out of character in a cheerful blue morning coat and white cravat.

Helena, on the Professor's arm, had reached the head of the aisle. Robert and Sir John turned to look at her. She was wearing the most exquisitely embroidered wedding dress they had ever seen, complete with a delicate lace veil. Robert had never seen his fiancée looking so wonderful. The Professor appeared an elegant gentleman in a dark green morning coat, tight-fitting breeches and riding boots.

The service raced by, despite lasting for over three-quarters of an hour. The vicar seized with relish the opportunity to preach on his favourite text, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." Much to Helena's and Robert's embarrassment, he went on to tell the congregation, "The couple you are witnessing being joined in matrimony are living examples of our Lord's words put into practice, for they risked their lives to save our beloved and honoured Sir Roderic when he was in his hour of greatest peril." They resisted the temptation to turn and look at Sir Roderic, stoically keeping their eyes forward. The Professor and Sir John, however, glanced behind them. Sir Roderic, in his best dress uniform with Hannah Trusty beside him, was beaming all over his face.

At the end of the service Robert and Helena Anderson walked up the aisle and were helped into a carriage by Drummond and another of Sir Roderic's servants. The carriage set off up the hill towards the castle. The guests, standing by the church door, cheered and waved. Professor Hawthorne surreptitiously produced a small 35mm camera from a pocket inside his morning coat and began taking pictures in rapid succession. "Professor!" exclaimed Sir John. "After what you said to Robert about the DAT machine!"

Hawthorne looked at him guiltily, like an eleven-year-old caught cheating in an exam, then carried on regardless.

Sir Roderic had laid on a magnificent banquet for them, which made even the dinner Sir Despard had given them the night of Sir Roderic's funeral pale into insignificance. Then the dance began in the Great Hall. Sir Roderic insisted on dancing with the bride.

As they waltzed around, he said quietly, "Forgive me, Mrs. Anderson."

Helena looked puzzled. "What for?"

He swallowed hard. "For... for committing adultery with you in my heart."

"What?" Helena was surprised rather than upset.

"Ever since I first saw you I wanted to... to take you for my own, even though I knew you were engaged to be married to Robert. I... I'm sorry." He looked down at his feet. Helena thought he was about to burst into tears.

"It's alright, Sir Roderic. I - I forgive you." She hoped she wasn't coming across in any way condescending.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Thank you," he said. He kissed her on the cheek, then they walked to the side of the hall and joined Dame Hannah and the Professor, who were chatting amiably, and Robert, Sir John, Despard and another gentleman whom Helena didn't recognise.

"This is my other nephew, Ruthven," Sir Roderic told her.

Ruthven kissed Helena's hand. "I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Anderson," he declared. "Despard's been telling me how you saved Uncle Roderic's life. What an adventure you must have had, travelling in time. How is it possible?"

"Don't you remember me telling you about it, the night Sir Despard took us prisoner?" Robert asked. Ruthven looked blank. "I went to your cottage, and spoke to you and your servant, Adam. Adam Goodheart. You sent the blacksmith and his sons to the castle with me."

"Forgive me, Mr. Anderson, but I cannot understand you. I have no cottage, I live here with my uncle and my brother. Are you referring to something which will happen to me in the future?"

"No, it was last December, the night of Sir Roderic's..." Robert trailed into silence as he saw the other man hadn't got the faintest idea what he was talking about.

Despard said, " _I_ remember it. That is, the recollection of the event is in my mind, yet my memory of how I have lived until now is different. Ruthven never left, Uncle Roderic never died. How can I remember two different lives?"

"It's the same for me," agreed Sir Roderic. "When you took me back, I found I was married to my darling Hannah." He put his arm around her affectionately. "Yet memory truthfully recalls that I married her over twenty years ago. I don't understand it at all."

Helena linked arms with her husband. "We've changed history! The things you remember now are what has happened to you in the new history we've created since we removed the curse. You and Despard can remember the old one too because you travelled from one time-stream to another. Ruthven can't remember it because he's never travelled in time."

"But how does it work, this time-travel?" Ruthven asked again.

"You couldn't understand it, it depends upon scientific concepts that won't even be thought of for another hundred years or so," Hawthorne said, rubbing his eyes. Please, he thought, not more first-year Theoretical Physics lectures. It's been a long day...

"I've often wondered whether time might not be curved the way the surface of the Earth is curved," Ruthven answered. "Once upon a time we thought the Earth was flat. Now we know it can be curved and yet it still appear flat to us. Could not time be likewise, so that if one were to dig a tunnel through from one place to another, one would appear in another age?"

Helena gaped. "Er, yes, that's basically it. But how..."

Robert interrupted her. "Who's that talking to Stephen?"

They looked in the direction in which he was pointing. Dr. Phillips was talking to an elderly gentleman who looked familiar. His clothes were a little out of period for 1816, consisting of a long dark frock-coat, a beautiful embroidered silk waistcoat with a matching scarf, and pale grey trousers. He wore a monocle and carried a gold-topped cane. He also wore a huge handlebar moustache, heavily waxed, which made Despard's and Sir Roderic's look like pipe-cleaners in comparison. A perfect Victorian gentleman... They stared at him for a good few seconds before Helena cried out, "It's you, Professor! It must be a future version of you! Come on, let's say hello!"

Professor Hawthorne gulped. "Er, if you don't mind, I think I'll go and have another drink. Excuse me, everyone." He hurried away, making every effort to avoid being seen by the man with the monocle.

Robert, Helena and the Murgatroyds joined Phillips and the other Professor Hawthorne. "Ah, there you are, you two!" roared the Professor. "But where's my younger self got to?"

"He was a bit nervous about meeting you," Helena replied.

"Oh. That's a shame. I wanted to tell him the good news. Would have made his day."

"What's that?"

"I wanted to celebrate, and I couldn't think of a better way of doing it than by watching myself give you away. Can't think how I managed to get into those breeches before I lost all that weight."

"Celebrate what?" demanded Robert.

"My knighthood. Came up in the Millenium Honours' List. I'm now Sir Mervyn Hawthorne." His chest swelled with pride.

Robert and Helena both shrieked with delight. Helena kissed him, while Robert wrung his hand. "The Millenium?" queried Despard.

"The Queen's New Year's Honours for the year 2000," the Professor explained. "Now where have I got to..." He looked around the hall for his other self.

His other self was at the far end of the hall, sipping a sherry. He became aware that a young man was looking over his shoulder. He turned to face him. "Robert! But I thought - " Hawthorne looked back up the hall, to where Robert and Helena stood, talking excitedly about something with the older Professor Hawthorne. "Don't say there's two of you too!"

"No, Sir Mervyn," the young man replied.

"Eh?" gasped Hawthorne.

"Oh sorry, you haven't been knighted yet. No, I'm not Robert Anderson. My name's Roderic, how do you do." He shook the Professor's hand.

"How do you do," the Professor echoed, dumbfounded.

"I really want to have a word with Sir Roderic up there," the young gentleman went on, "but I don't want my parents to see me. Could you possibly distract their attention for me, please?"

"Your parents... you're Robert and Helena's _son_?"

"Er, yes. Roderic Despard Anderson, that's me." He peered anxiously in the direction of the bride and groom.

"But when were you..." He was interrupted by an electronic bleeping noise.

"Oh, blast," exclaimed Roderic Anderson. He pulled a tiny cube out of his frock-coat pocket and pressed a button on the top.

A faint three-dimensional image of a woman's head appeared, suspended in mid-air above the cube. "Hi, Roderic, Avril here, 9.45 p.m., Thursday 20th. Can you get back as quick as you can? I could do with an extra pair of hands on the Ganymede project, like this minute. Thanks. Bye." The image disappeared.

"Oh, blast," he said again. "I'm sorry, Professor, I'll have to go, I'm needed back at the University, but I'll be right back." He shook Hawthorne's hand again and rushed out of the hall through the arch, towards the main door.

The Professor shook his head. Robert crossed the hall and approached him. "Who was that?"

"You'll find out," Hawthorne replied with an evil glint in his eye.

Many hours later Robert and Helena finally climbed into bed. "Happy, Mrs. Anderson?" asked Robert.

"Happy, Mr. Anderson," said Helena.

"This is better than Paris," he declared. "A honeymoon as guests of Sir Roderic and Dame Hannah... and the best of it is, we know in advance the weather's going to be brilliant."

"I love you, Robert."

"I love you, Helena." He extinguished the little oil lamp.

A few doors down the passage, Professor Hawthorne lay dreaming that everyone in the entire world except him was called Drummond...

And in another part of the castle Dame Hannah Murgatroyd kissed her husband, the good Baronet of Ruddigore.

 **THE END**

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